


Survival Expert

by puellamagi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Parentlock, Slow Burn, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puellamagi/pseuds/puellamagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, drunk and full of Japanese takeaway food, Sherlock declared that John was the world's foremost survival expert. </p>
<p>At the time, John had no idea how much more he'd have to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More tags to come. I'm a fair bit ahead in writing this, I expect to post updates twice a week depending on work schedules.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I like the way you survive / just keep blowing at that pretty blue flame that’s burning you alive” -_ Something for Kate (Survival Expert)

February 2010

 

“Don’t you think it’s funny,” John says, in between shovelling pieces of gyoza into his mouth, “How breakable a human body is?”

“And people say I’m the sociopath,” Sherlock retorts, picking the meat out of his yakisoba and dropping them onto John’s noodles.

“Just hear me out,” says John.

“Fine, go ahead with your pithy observations about the human condition.”

“Prick,” mutters John, but he continues, “The human body dies so easily. That woman that we saw face down in Regent’s Canal. It wasn’t the stuff she was drugged with that killed her. But a bit of water in her lungs. When I was in medical school, I met a patient who ended up losing a couple of lobes in his lungs because he inhaled peas.”

Sherlock looks up. He can’t resist a good story about a ridiculous death.

John continues, with a small grin now that he got Sherlock’s attention. “So, in the end he’s complaining so much about this restricted diet he was put on. Of course, his acquiesces and brings in a Tupperware container of peas. Not even anything special, but boiled frozen peas that were then reheated. The bloke naturally aspirates the peas. The wife denies everything, even though he ends up dead.”

“People are idiots,” Sherlock says, “What’s the point in even trying to keep them alive if they’re just going to defy what their doctors say?”

“I wondered that myself,” replies John, “So after toiling in the hospital system I end up in Afghanistan. I ended up patching up soldiers and innocent civillians just because people want to kill each other over ideology. Fat lot of good that did me.”

“But now you have me as a flatmate,” says Sherlock, “Doesn’t that make getting shot worth it?”

“I really don’t even know if you’re joking,” John says, “I’m getting another beer. Want one?”

“Okay,” says Sherlock. John gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Sherlock grabs John’s container of gyoza and shoves the remaining three pieces into his mouth.

John comes back, beers in hand. He looks at Sherlock with a bemused expression.

“I thought you didn’t like gooza”.

“Changed my mind. And it’s _gyo-za_ ”, corrects Sherlock, Japanese pronunciation perfect.

“Giyoza?”

Sherlock giggles. It’s the one sound, that in their brief acquaintance, that John has decided he likes the best. Sherlock carries with him an air of superiority, of seriousness, that when he lets down his guard and giggles, John can’t help but join him. He feels privileged. He’s the only one who sees this side of Sherlock.

“You can take care of the milk and I’ll worry about ordering our dinner in future,” Sherlock says.

The two men eat in companionable silence from then on.  They’re seated close to each other on the sofa, a little closer than John would normally find comfortable but the beer, food and conversation has relaxed his limits on personal space. It’s kind of nice sitting this close to Sherlock, even if his elbows are sharp and he still smells a little bit of canal-water.

John wonders what it’d be like if Sherlock wasn’t married to his work. Would Sherlock mind if he kissed him? He quickly shelves the idea, though. John has never been involved with a man in that way. He kind of thinks maybe Sherlock hasn’t been with anyone in that way. It’d be a disaster. John’s terrible at relationships anyway.

He’s happy to be Sherlock’s friend.

John doesn’t think he’s ever had a friend like Sherlock. Even though they’ve only known each other a short time, John imagines them as old men arguing at the pub. Would Sherlock’s hair recede like Mycroft’s? That would be hilarious. John doesn’t think he’ll lose his hair, but he can already see a few grey hairs coming in. Maybe he’d end up being the attractive friend then.

But will they even survive to become old men in the pub? Sherlock has no regard for his own personal safety. John knows his own faults of course. He’s addicted to adrenaline, if he doesn’t die on some case with Sherlock he’ll end up in a field hospital in Yemen or Syria or somewhere, bombed to smithereens and leaving an unrecognisable corpse for nobody to mourn.

“It’s a miracle I’ve survived so long, come to think of it,” John says, looking up at the cracked paint on the ceiling.

Sherlock chuckles. “John, you couldn’t be more wrong. Even if miracles were a real thi-“

“Are you going on one of your tirades now?”

“Shut up,” says Sherlock, draining the remains of his beer. “As I was saying, even if miracles were a real thing, which as a man of medicine you should know that they are not, your survival wouldn’t be one.”  
“I was shot, and nearly died from the hypovolaemic shock,” says John, “And then I nearly died from the fucking sepsis, and then I got a DVT in my leg, and a fucking pressure ulcer on my ass because nobody bothered to turn my half dead body around the bed. There were so many times I could have died. Did you know people die from pressure ulcers?”

“Yes, but that’s my point. You survived all of that.”

“I’m not finished. And then I’ve ended up with a case of PTSD that got me pretty fucking close to blowing my brains out in the piece of shit bedsit they put me in when I finally returned to London.”

Sherlock smiles then, all teeth and crinkled eyes. He’s looking at John like he’s the greatest miracle in the world. Even if miracles don’t exist. He’s still really close. John can almost hear Sherlock’s heartbeat, until he realises it’s actually his own, thumping and pounding in his ears.

“Don’t you get it, John? It’s amazing, how you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”

“I don’t follow,” says John, edging away from Sherlock on the couch.

“So many things have tried to kill you. The human body may be fragile, but it can withstand a lot of damage. You’ve had your body torn apart by a bullet, endured your blood being emptied out, the indelicate ministrations of a far inferior medic, a life threatening infection, a blood clot forming in your leg from impaired circulation, your skin and muscle being eroded by pressure, and your own damaged, twisted thought processes telling you to be afraid of living.”

There’s an almost manic spark in Sherlock’s eyes as he says this. Sherlock takes John’s face in his hands, and for a terrifying (thrilling) moment he think’s Sherlock is going to kiss him.

“You’ve survived so much,” Sherlock’s voice drops to a quiet murmur, “I’d be surprised if you could even die. I think you can endure anything. You’re incredibly strong, John Watson. You’re impossible to break. You’re John Watson, the world’s foremost survival expert.”

John can feel the blood rush to his face. He’s blushing, but he hopes in vain that Sherlock will not notice in the dim lights of the flat. He deflects with an attempt at humour.

“You’ve done more for my self-esteem than months of therapy, Sherlock Holmes. Ever thought of branching out into the counselling business?”

Sherlock grins. “Oh yes, I would love to spend all day dealing with people’s emotional issues.”

“Dear Parliamentary and Health Services Ombudsman. I would like to register a complaint about one Sherlock Holmes. He told me that I should quit my job as a high-flying banker in the city and choose a vocation more suiting to my intellect and general ability, such as the person who checks the bags of Jelly Babies to make sure there aren’t too many green ones.”

“To be fair, they are the worst ones.”

John didn’t know, back then, how much more he’d have to survive.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love’s not something you just fall into / It’s a choice that you’ve got to make” – The Waifs (Born to Love)

August 2012

John barely notices her at first. He’s started work at a new clinic, a bit further out from the centre of London. This morning he’s referred a 28 year old man for an abdominal ultrasound (classic case of gallstones, boring), argued with a 83 year old woman about how he’s not prescribing the anticoagulant for his own amusement, but rather her atrial fibrillation and history of TIAs means she’s an exceptionally high risk for stroke, and sent off a mental health referral for a young man who is experiencing delusions that the Australian intelligence agency, ASIO of all things is spying on him.

He’s over it. It’d be interesting if the Aussies really were spying on the kid from Edinburgh but stuff like that only happened when Sherlock was alive. So John continues to struggle with Candy Crush on his mobile phone before giving up and opting to glance at the news headlines.

“You look like you could use a cuppa,” says a woman’s voice coming from over near the kettle.

John looks up. He doesn’t notice how beautiful she is, this petite woman loading up her coffee cup with an exceptionally large spoonful of instant coffee.

“That’d be lovely,” he says, “White tea, two sugars.”

She laughs. “I’m not making it for you, I was just making an observation. Not your housekeeper, just the new clinic nurse.”

John smiles. “You just reminded me of my old landlady. Mind you she was a 73 year old former stripper.”

“I look pretty good for someone in their 70s, though,” Mary says.

John notices her. She’s wearing a disposable plastic apron over her clothes still. John hopes that she hasn’t just spread blood and serous fluid into the tea room. More than that, he notices how attractive she is.

“Don’t suppose you ever branch out of nursing and do a bit of exotic dancing?” John says. “Oh shit, sorry, I just realised how inappropriate that was. I meant to be flirty, not creepy. I’m just going to go and hang myself in the treatment room.”

She hands him a mug of tea.

“Don’t mention it,” she says, “But if you are going to kill yourself over a bit of embarrassment, would you do me a favour and do it outside? I’ve got a lot of ulcers to do today, and I need the space.”

John laughs. It’s been months since he’s laughed. It feels strange, like waking up from a coma and speaking only French.

“I’m Mary Morstan by the way,” she says, offering her hand.

John shakes it. “John Watson.”

“Oh!” she says, pulling out a chair and sitting next to John. “I thought you looked familiar, but I thought you might have had one of those faces. Sherlock Holmes. You’re the one who um, blogged about him?”

“Yeah,” John says, “Um, yeah. That’s me, I’m that John Watson.”

“And I’ve gone and made a joke about um. That. I guess that makes up for your sexual harassment.”

“We’re both equally offensive? Actually, it was kind of a relief, to be honest. Natalie kind of tiptoes about it all, ensuring that I don’t get any of the patients with serious depression issues. I get the ones with paranoia which is enough. Which is nice because I don’t really enjoy prescribing antidepressants and giving referrals to counsellors and psychologist; I like stuff that I can deal with objectively, but even though Sherlock jumped off a building and it was horrible, I don’t want to be treated like I’m one step away from an emotional breakdown,” John says. “So um, yeah, feel free to make morbid quips about stuff like that, because at least then one person doesn’t act like I’m a complete emotional wreck.”

John takes a breath. Mary’s perfume is really lovely, in a way that he can’t quite categorise without looking at Sherlock’s website.

“I don’t think you’re any more screwed up in the head than the average person,” Mary says, “In fact, you’re probably a lot more put-together than me. So, anything good in the news?”

John is fiddling with his phone idly.

“Uh, you know, the usual, Tory scumbags trying to gut the NHS, some depressing stuff overseas that I don’t want to think about any more, and a story about a cat being accidentally mailed to Exeter.”

“Oh, poor cat! Was it okay?”

“Scratched the hell out of the owner once she opened the box, so I’d say so, yeah.”

“Oh good,” Mary says, “But on the bright side, you don’t like the Tories.”

“The fact that we work in healthcare notwithstanding, why is that so good?”

“Well, it’s going to sound silly, but my best friend told me that I should never ask a Tory out.”

“Huh,” John says, “Mine probably wouldn’t have even known who the Prime Minister was.”

A few seconds pass.

“Wait, did you say-“

Mary smiles, and rifles through her handbag. She pulls out a Chinese takeaway menu. “I was wondering if you noticed that. There’s a new Chinese restaurant not too far from here, if you wanted to grab some after work.”

John can do this. It doesn’t have to lead to anything serious, it’s dinner. It’d be nice. God knows he could do with the company. He hasn’t gone out in a while. Definitely not with a woman. Definitely not one as gorgeous as Mary.

John takes the menu from Mary’s outstretched hand.

“I’d love to. Apparently, you can always tell the quality of a Chinese restaurant from the bottom third of the door handle.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  “I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you / that I almost believe they’re real” – The Cure (Pictures of You)

 

May 2011

It’s a Sunday morning, and there’s no case on. Sherlock is lying on the sofa with John’s comforter across the upper half of his body, including his face. John questioned him, and there was some muttering about blood getting on his, so John isn’t too concerned. As long as blood doesn’t get on his own.

John is himself seated quite comfortably with his iPad, reading a few columns on The Guardian. A cup of tea is perched on a nearby table.

_Ding-ding!_

John gets a notification on his tablet. It’s a video that Harry has shared with him. John watches the video – it’s a large cat, an obese Scottish fold, jumping over a box in slow motion. It’s hilarious. John can’t help it, he’s got a soft spot for animals. They never pressure him to be sociable. John seems like a social butterfly next to Sherlock, but if John is honest with himself, he prefers these quiet days in to going to the pub with Stamford or Bill Murray. That being said, he prefers chasing murderers and jewel thieves with Sherlock to anything else.

He watches the video again. He chuckles.

“Sherlock, you have to see this.”

Sherlock  sticks his head out from underneath the comforter. It’s kind of endearing. Cute, even. Not that John would ever dare to say that out loud.

“Is it another tedious cat video?”

John walks over to the sofa, and leans on the arm rest near Sherlock’s head.

“There is no way you could possibly find this one tedious.”

“Pass,” says Sherlock, once more sticking his head under the comforter.

“I think it’s that Japanese cat you like. Don’t try and deny it, I’ve seen you look at videos of him when you’re pretending to research serial killers.”

“Maru?”

“Yeah,” says John, “This video is amazing.”  
  
Sherlock immediately sits up and peers over at John’s iPad. His head is leaning on John’s waist. Sherlock has no sense of boundaries.

“Move over,” says John.

Sherlock ignores him. John gets up and sits on the other side of the sofa, lifting Sherlock legs so he can fit underneath them. If Sherlock has no sense of personal space, John might as well ignore social conventions too.

“Show me the video, John” Sherlock says, voice pleading.

John hits play. Sherlock watches, enraptured by the cat’s antics. When it finishes, he watches it again. John grabs the comforter off Sherlock and arranges it so they are both covered. He rests his hands over Sherlock’s blanket covered knee. Sherlock pays him little mind, watching more cat videos on the internet.

“I wonder what would happen if I wrote on my blog about you liking internet cats?”

“Don’t. It’d be terrible for business,” says Sherlock, “A lot of our client base is probably due to my public image right now. Besides, I only like Maru. I prefer dogs, generally speaking.”

John smiles. “You really like animals, don’t you?”

“I do,” says Sherlock, “Dogs are wonderful creatures. They have all the qualities I admire in a person. Loyalty. Honesty. Their love isn’t selfish like a person’s.”

“I never really had any pets growing up,” says John, “We spent a lot of time living in council flats and stuff. I did feed this cat for a while, until it got hit by a car. I called him Oliver. Big ginger thing.”

“I don’t like big ginger things, generally. Reminds me too much of Mycroft,” Sherlock quips.

“He was great. He was big and fluffy. He had a great coat. He wasn’t in a good way when I first saw him, but he ended up really healthy looking. I’d spend my money from the paper run on cat food and worming stuff, got him a flea collar once. I adored him. Mum wouldn’t let me take him inside though, cause he scratched the shit out of Harry’s arms when she tried to pet him.”

They sit in silence for a bit, before John continues.

“Actually, he reminds me a bit of you. He was this big posh looking thing really, and he was mean to everybody. He scratched Harry, chased the other cats and dogs away. Once he ate Mrs Figg’s budgie actually.”

“I’ve never eaten a budgie,” says Sherlock petulantly.

“But you know, he was standoffish, but a big softy really. He’d lean all over me, purring his head off. He’d even let me pet his belly, and you know, cats go crazy when someone tries that.”

John grins.

“I wonder if you’d bite me if I did this”, John says as he tickles Sherlock’s belly under the covers. Sherlock makes a high-pitched squeal sound, goes bright red. He shoves John away and marches into his room, comforter in hand.

John guessed that didn’t go too well. John gets up slowly, and makes his way towards Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s locked shut. Typical. John tries anyway.

  
“Sherlock?”

“Go away.”

“I’m sorry, alright?”

There’s no response. John sighs and goes back to his long cold cup of tea near his armchair. He picks it up and takes it to the kitchen sink. He rinses it out.

John wonders how long it’ll be until Sherlock cools off. He wants to apologise, but he knows Sherlock well enough to know that he needs to wallow and be angry for a bit. He’ll emerge from his room later on, and he’ll be back to his usual self.

John still wants to apologise. He sits around for the rest of the morning, idling away on his computer when he gets an idea. He dials Harry’s number. After the usual pleasantries, he interrupts Harry.

“Hey Harry, this is going to sound strange, but I need to you find a photo for me.”

It takes her a while to find it, but sure enough, later on he gets the email. He downloads the photo and texts it to Sherlock.

Sherlock emerges from his room a few minutes later. He’s holding his phone, not looking where’s he going, but rather staring at the photograph. There’s something in his expression, like he’s looking at something very precious. John doesn’t quite realise this, of course. He thinks that there is something strange about his expression, at the very least.

“That’s Oliver. I just wanted you to know it was the highest of compliments to compare you to him,” John says, “Sorry for being a prick.”

The photo is of an eighteen year old John, sitting on the floor of his bedroom. John is cross-legged, with the cat sitting right on his lap. The cat is rubbing his face into John’s palm. Next to him are a pile of records. Sherlock notes The Cure’s _Disintergration_ , The Triffid’s _The Black Swan,_ Lou Reed’s _New York_ and _Dylan and the Dead._ John is grinning the same cheeky grin that Sherlock is familiar with, but without the cynicism that his stint in Afghanistan gave him. It’s amazing. Sherlock makes a mental note to back this up and ask Harry for more photos.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to take the cat inside,” Sherlock says after a minute or two.

“Yeah, Harry ended up ratting me out later that day. I wouldn’t give her back the Cure record.”

“That’s fair enough, it’s a great album,” Sherlock quips, “I have to be honest though, I would have deduced you to be more into glam metal than new wave.”

John laughs.

“Smart arse.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maru is a real cat and is amazing, although my personal favourite Internet Celebrity Cat is Lil' Bub. I figured she's a bit too sweet and positive for Sherlock and John to be fans though.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Child is born / and you get it and you call it yours / child cub / and you raise it, you raise it up” – Kate Miller-Heidke (Let me Fade)

April, 2015

It's mid-morning at Bart's, and Sherlock is seated across from Molly in a small cramped tea room. He is sipping his black coffee (instant, helped a little with two sachets of coffee and liberal sugaring).

"Are you worried you won't see John as much with the baby coming?" Molly says, breaking her biscuit into halves, before dunking one of them in her tea.

Sherlock stares.

"Why would I be worried?" he says, quickly, defensively.

"Well you know, John and Mary will be really busy," Molly says, before the second half of her biscuit is over dunked and breaks off into her tea, before mumbling, "Shit!".

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock says, before softening a little, "I appreciate your concern, really. But I'll be fine. He's not my husband."

"I never said you were, it's just that the two of you are really close, and it's obvious how much you need hi-"

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock interrupts, before standing up and exiting the room, "You need to work on your biscuit dunking technique - just a second or two. Otherwise it'll turn to mush and you'll try and dig out the bits with your fingers, burning them slightly, just like you always do."

Molly stares after him, sheepishly sucking on her slightly burnt fingers. She wonders why Sherlock has to make everything so difficult for himself?

***

Sherlock is now in Lestrade’s office. It’s a little bit more spacious than Molly’s tea room, and the coffee is from one of those pod machine things from Aldi. John insisted that Sherlock put in for it a couple of Christmases ago. The coffee is still awful, but the taste resembles coffee a little more closely.

Sherlock explains the particulars of the case, and why the killer is the medical centre receptionist and not the nurse. The injections are clearly done by an amateur. There’s no chance that a trained up nurse would cause so much bleeding at the site. Even a reasonably competent student nurse wouldn’t do the damage.

“Thanks for that, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, in a rare show of humility.

“Don’t mention it,” says Sherlock, in an even rarer show of humility. He stares out of the window.

Lestrade clears his throat.

“Um, listen, Sherlock,” he says, “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock replies quickly.

“Well, Mary’s having her caesarean today isn’t she?”

“Mary’s hardly my wife,” Sherlock says, “It’s not of any particular concern. She’s likely to survive the procedure.”

“Do you want to me to come around later? I’ve got some cold case files you could get stuck into, if you like.”

Sherlock suspects some of his friends are talking about him. “Is this an intervention? First Molly, then you? Will Mrs. Hudson be on babysitting duty?”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade starts.

“No, Lestrade,” says Sherlock, “I’m really not interested in everyone meddling. Mary’s having a baby, I’m not jealous of a newborn child. I expect John will be busy for a while, or forever, and that’s okay. I want…”

“What do you want?” asks Lestrade.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He fiddles with his mobile phone for a few minutes.

He looks Lestrade directly in the eye.

“At eight forty-two last night you said via Facebook message to Molly Hooper, I’m worried that Sherlock isn’t going to cope when Mary has the baby.”

“Well, Sherlock, excuse me for worrying,” says Lestrade, on the defence.

“Molly replies that she’s scared I’m going to relapse, like I’m some kind of addict.” He spits out the last word with vitriol.

“Well, Sherlock, strictly speaking, you are. We’re worried about you. You’re better when you’re with John, and when they’ve got a newborn they’re going to be too busy to follow you around, chasing serial killers and stolen artworks.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me! I’m completely fine. I can cope without John Watson in my life. I’ve been alone before and I can be alone again!”

“But Sherlock,” Lestrade says gently, “You don’t have to be alone. We’re not John, but there are lots of people who care about you.”

“When you’re not feigning concern just to impress Molly Hooper, you can come by then. Better yet, when you have some interesting cases. And as a matter of fact, Molly Hooper is impressed by a moderate level of intelligence, so maybe when you develop that you might be able to hold her attention.”

Sherlock storms out of Lestrade’s office.

*** 

Sherlock gets the message in the afternoon. The baby is born.   
  
_“I’m not going to lie to you, she looks like a baby-sized jelly baby, newborns aren’t cute. But my god she is perfect. Adeline Watson. Born at 1530. Come and see her!!! Campaign for Sherlock as a middle name lol”_

He immediately leaps down the seventeen steps leading down from 221B and knocks on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Sherlock, dear, whatever is the matter? I don’t know you to have ever knocked on my door ever,” says Mrs Hudson as she opens the door. Sherlock notices the strong smell of marijuana smoke wafting out. Sherlock hates the smell, but considering his penchant for harder drugs and fondness for experimenting on body parts, he doesn’t say anything. In the spirit of not getting evicted. Not that he could ever get evicted.

“The baby! Do you want to come and see her? John’s just invited me.”

“Considering me? That’s not like you dear, I’m actually starting to worry a bit. Let me get my things.”

“Hurry up!”

Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock a knowing glance. “You want backup, don’t you? You’re scared to see her on your own.”

“Just get ready, I’ll need help getting the presents into the cab.”

“How much did you buy for her?”

“Oh, not much at all.”

***

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson make their way to the maternity ward where Mary is staying around 7pm. John is dozing in the large chair besides the bed and Mary is sitting upright in the bed cradling Adeline. Mary looks at Sherlock, annoyed, until she notices that he is carrying several large shopping bags filled with wrapped gifts.

“Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson!” Mary exclaims, “Our first visitors. Mind you that’s probably because everyone else realised that I’d need some rest before having people barge in.”

Sherlock looks crestfallen. “I was invited.”

“Oh go ahead then,” says Mary, exasperated, “You brought presents anyway, so I won’t kick you out. How’s the hip, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Dreadful, but thanks for asking.”

“Don’t know why you just don’t get the surgery, or would you be lost without something to complain about?” Sherlock snarks, “Anyway, more important matters. John.”

Sherlock walks up to John’s sleeping form and stares at him. John opens his eyes and looks up at Sherlock blearily before his vision comes into focus.

“You’d think he was the one having his abdomen cut open,” remarks Mary.

“Oh, Sherlock,” says John when he comes to, “You came!”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, “I wouldn’t miss your daughter’s birth.”

John smiles and Sherlock is briefly reminded of staring at the sun.

“Come and see what I made,” says John, before correcting with “what we made” when Mary shoots him a look.

Sherlock tentatively steps closer to the bed, where Adeline Watson is sleeping in Mary’s arms.

“Um,” Sherlock says, “May I hold her?”

“Of course, just be careful,” says Mary, “Make sure to support her head.”

Mary carefully hands the baby to Sherlock, who follows her instructions without snapping at her. Sherlock sits in John’s seat (which he has vacated), and holds Adeline close to him. It’s hard to tell with a newborn baby, but she does remind Sherlock of John. Something about the overall shape of the eyes and the nose. Sherlock thinks that she is the most beautiful child in existence. He spends a few minutes gazing at her, during which she curls a tiny hand around his thumb.

She’s the universe. Sherlock tucks that thought away, it’s too sentimental. Sherlock can’t get too sentimental about this child that isn’t his. He wishes that he could take her away and raise her for his own, take John along. Leave Mary out of it all. But these days, John and Mary have reconciled and seem to be getting along better than ever.

Sherlock should happy. All he has done since returning from the dead has been for John’s happiness. Mission accomplished. He’s holding John’s baby and she’s perfect. He notices a wet patch on the top of Adeline’s head. His own tears. He smiles, just to make sure John think’s they’re happy ones.

“Are you alright, mate?” asks John gently.

Sherlock looks up at John. “She’s amazing, John. I can’t believe you said she looked like a jelly baby. She’s beautiful.”

John makes a mock-offended face at Sherlock. “Oi, keep your mouth shut.”

Mary pipes up. “You said our newborn daughter looked like a jelly baby?”

“I never said jelly babies weren’t beautiful,” says John, looking guilty.

“Have you thought about Sherlock for a middle name yet?” asks Sherlock suddenly.

“Absolutely not,” says Mary.

“I think it kind of works,” mutters John, “Sherlock could be kind of gender-neutral for a middle name”.

“Adeline Sherlock Watson,” says Mrs. Hudson, “It has a nice ring to it, you know, Mary. And Sherlock’s done so much for the two of you. You really ought to name the baby after him.”

“It’s a girl baby,” says Mary, exasperated.

“I don’t think we’re going to win that one, Sherlock,” says John, “Do you want to maybe grab a coffee and let Mrs. Hudson meet Adeline?”

“Alright,” says Sherlock, adopting the expression of a sullen teenager, allowing John to lead the way down to the small kitchenette in the maternity ward.

Sherlock never thought he’d ever be jealous of a parent. He didn’t particularly like children when he was a child. Maybe its just because Adeline is John’s child. That could very well be it.

“So, how do you feel about fatherhood, John?” Sherlock asks when the coffee has been made.

“I’ve never been more terrified in my entire life,” says John, “I don’t know how I can possibly not make a mess of things.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and pulls him into a brief but close embrace. Sherlock pulls away but John pulls him closer still. John is warm and his hair smells of cheap shampoo with apples. Sherlock realises he doesn’t want John to let go, but he does. A few of the maternity ward nurses are looking at the pair of them and talking softly.

“Don’t worry, John, you can handle anything. Even if you don't possess the intelligence necessary to distinguish newborn babies from confectionery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, a two-chapter upload day. I'm not normally a prolific writer, so don't' get used to this. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re thinking ‘bout your baby / wondering if maybe / he is singing to the same white moon – The Waifs (Feeling Sentimental)

May 5, 2015

It’s about three in the morning. Sherlock is sitting in John’s chair, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He feels a bit sick. The air stinks of tobacco; the ashtray that swiped from Buckingham Palace all those years ago is full of butts. It doesn’t take a detective to work out that Sherlock isn’t coping too well.

“It’s fine,” he mutters to himself. Sherlock knew what was going to happen once Adeline was born. It’s what he wanted. It’s why he planned John’s wedding. It’s why he encouraged Mary to return to John after the shooting. It’s why he killed Magnussen. John’s happiness is everything. Before, when Sherlock faked his death, it was about John’s safety. But now the only thing he cares about is if John is happy.

Surely, John must be happy by now. He has the family he’s always longed for.

Sherlock picks up his violin, and idly tunes it. He starts playing a few notes without paying attention. Something he’s played before many times – Debussy’s Clair de Lune. It’s a piece he can play quite easily, but it feels empty without the piano driving the piece. The violin is really just accompaniment.

He continues for a while before growing bored with the classical melody. He segues abruptly into an arrangement of Fugazi’s _Waiting Room_ that he came up with when he was eighteen. At the time it was perfect for pissing off Mycroft. Actually it’s quite good for that now. Playing it is challenging on the violin, and it’s great for distracting himself. He plays through his arrangement a few times before growing bored with it.

_BANG_

Mrs. Hudson is hitting her ceiling with a broom. Better stop. Otherwise she won’t bring him any of those biscuits tomorrow. Sherlock retreats back to John’s chair. Sherlock supposes it’s his chair now. He picks up his mobile phone, intending to check the messages for his Science of Deduction email address. Might be a new case.

John has sent him a message at 3.37. Five minutes ago. Sherlock smiles. Somehow, in the deserted London streets, they are both up at the same time. He dismisses the ridiculous sentimental thought and checks the picture message.

It’s a selfie of John holding Adeline. The baby is wearing a cap that looks quite a lot like his deerstalker hat. Sherlock vaguely remembers Mrs. Hudson crocheting it. John looks tired. His t-shirt is covered with stains from where Adeline has spat up on him. Adeline is wide awake. Her eyes are the same blue of John’s, and they are looking up to the camera. She’s wearing an outfit Sherlock got her – a baby onesie, cream coloured with little cartoon honeybees on it.

Sherlock composes a text. “The average man in his 40s requires eight hours of sleep a night, I presume you’re getting quite a lot less. SH”.

The response is immediate, “Oi, I’ve got a baby to feed and change. What’s your excuse? Or do pretentious consulting detectives not count here? :D”

“Adeline is without a doubt, the finest baby I have ever seen. SH”.

“Thanks. :) You never say anything that nice about her father.”

Sherlock stares at his phone. This is the first contact Sherlock has had with John since the baby was born a couple of weeks ago. It’s only a few text messages but Sherlock feels like a starving person presented with a banquet. He wants to hold onto this moment, plaster John’s exhausted selfie on the walls of his mind palace. He never wants to forget the dark circles under John’s eyes, physical evidence of John’s devotion to Adeline, his capacity to care. They’re beautiful. Sherlock wants to memorise John’s smile, relaxed and uninhibited – a smile that is only for him. He thinks that maybe there are two (three, now) people in the world John smiles like that for.  

Sherlock wishes, not for the first time, that it was just him. It’s not that he dislikes Mary (well he likes her as much as you can like someone who shot you) but he yearns for what it was like before the Moriarty business. Life at Baker Street with John was so much more simple. Being away from London had made some things clearer, but Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the clarity.

Sherlock’s phone vibrates in his hand. A new message from John.

“I was fishing for compliments by the way. :) Maybe about my ravishing good looks. Addie is settled now so I’m going to try and get some sleep anyway. You should too.”

Sherlock considers throwing the phone out of the window. He picks up his violin. He puts it down again, considering Mrs. Hudson’s wrath.

It’s hateful. This feeling of jealousy. Sherlock has no right to feel it. John is not his possession. He should be grateful that he got what time he did living with John. Any other time Sherlock would have injected himself with morphine, but he remembers John’s face on the plane. He’ll steer clear of the opiates at least.

He goes to the small collection of DVDs on the shelf. He picks up a DVD copy of Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind. John’s. Sherlock isn’t sure why he owned a children’s movie in the first place. The case is where Sherlock has stashed a few blister packs of benzodiazepines. He considers his options. Temazepam sounds like a good idea. It doesn’t work as well for him as it used to, but two tablets should be enough. Sherlock is a chronic insomniac. They’re a standard sleep medication. The fact that Sherlock isn’t tired, just doesn’t want to be awake has nothing to do with it. John would understand.

He pushes out two tablets. Considers them. What would John really say? Would he worry? Would he be angry?

He drops the pills on the floor and crushes them with his foot.

He repeats this for the rest of the temazepam, and the diazepam too.

Milligrams of drugs on the floor, but mostly filler. The worst part is, if he told John that he even thought about it he’d worry. Might even be angry. He would search Sherlock’s flat, even though he doesn’t have anything else.

He sends a text to Molly.

She replies five hours later with overly effusive congratulations. By then Sherlock is annoyed with himself for not keeping anything, and to his own surprise, exhausted enough to sleep.

In one of London’s commuter outposts, John is sleep deprived as well. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly I can’t stay in this room / you’ll never sway and I have nothing left I can think of to say – Missy Higgins (This is how it goes)

May 5, 2015 (later that morning)

 

The baby is crying. It’s not her fault. As Sherlock would say, crying is what babies do. Or was that dying is what people do? John doesn’t even know anymore. It’s something Sherlock would say, at any rate. At least babies are honest about their feelings. John isn’t. His nerves are frayed. He doesn’t want to fight with Mary. He really doesn’t.

He actually does. Resentment has been building within him since Christmas, even though Sherlock thinks that John’s marriage has been hit with a reset switch. It doesn’t actually work that way.

“John, did you remember to get that brand of nappies?” Mary calls out as John opens the door to their flat.

“I didn’t get them, we have like five packets of perfectly good newborn nappies,” says John, dropping his keys and the few bags of shopping onto the kitchen counter “I told you I wasn’t going to buy any.”

“They’re not as good, John!”

“They work perfectly fine,” says John, “They soak up piss and shit don’t they?” He flicks the kettle on, bangs around in the cupboard for tea mugs and tea bags.

“I wish you wouldn’t swear around Addie,” says Mary, walking into the kitchen, baby in arms.

“She won’t remember it anyway,” mutters John, spooning sugar into the mugs.

“I swear to god, John, if her first word is shit, I’ll fucking kill you,” Mary says.

“Oh, like how you tried to kill Sherlock? For finding you when you were about to kill Magnussen? Because you’re such a fucking pillar of morality?” John’s voice is low, but the bitterness is as clear as day.

“Why do you always have to bring that up? If you say you forgive me, you actually need to. I wasn’t shooting to kill anyway.”

The baby scrunches up her face. John finishes making the tea.

“And besides, Sherlock is a killer as well. He shot Magnussen in cold blood.”

“To protect you! To protect us! That’s hardly cold blooded,” John’s voice is louder now, and wavering.

“I shot Sherlock to protect us.”

“You shot Sherlock to protect yourself. And you know very well how close Sherlock came to dying,” says John, voice shaking. “I already lost him once before, and his blood was- it was everywhere, Mary. And he nearly died. It was chance that he survived. If he fell the other way, or the bullet was in a slightly different spot.”

John slides a cup of tea over to Mary and reaches out to take Addie, who is scrunching up her face. He kisses her forehead.

Mary picks up her cup of tea. She makes a face. It’s not her brand of tea. John must have bought it this time. She looks him directly in the eye.

“If you don’t forgive me, why didn’t you just stay at Baker Street?”

John didn’t expect that.

“If it’s out of some misguided notion of staying together for Addie, don’t bother.”

John looks down at Addie’s face. She looks a lot like Mary, but her eyes are just like his.

“It’s not that,” John says, slowly, “I do love you. There’s a reason I married you in the first place, and despite what anyone else might say it wasn’t because I didn’t have Sherlock dragging me to crime scenes. I want to be a good husband. I want to get along with you. I want to forgive you. I want to be a family.”

He looks out the window. He can’t make eye contact with her now.

“But?”

“It’s so hard. I’m so resentful. I’m angry all the time and I don’t want to be. I’m restless out here in the suburbs. And every time I look at you I see the person who nearly took one of the most important people in my life away from me when I had just gotten him back.” John’s voice is quiet, contemplative. He’s thought about this a lot lately. “Maybe I need to go back to my therapist.”

“It was never going to be me, though,” says Mary, drinking the tea even though it tastes awful, “Even though you married me, it probably should have been him.”

John laughs, but there’s no humour in it.

“I thought you of all people would know that Sherlock and I weren’t like that.”

“Maybe so,” Mary says, “But there’s no question that you love him more than you love me. I think that if he shot me, if he gave a good enough explanation, you’d just go along with it.”

“Mary-“ John starts, but he’s interrupted.

“No, John. If you thought about it and admitted it to yourself you’d know it’s the truth. I don’t know why you’re so attached to Sherlock, and it’s not my place to judge, but you are. Maybe he makes you feel like a normal well-adjusted person.”

“I’m hardly well-adjusted,” John says.

“I think even though, you know, we’re married and we’ve obviously had quite a bit of fantastic sex, the way you relate to me is like a sitcom husband when there are other people around, and when it’s just us it’s like we’re just really good friends. We have a lot of fun, sometimes,” Mary says, seated on the bar stool in the kitchen, dunking a biscuit in her tea.

“When we’re not fighting.”

“Yeah,” says Mary, “Maybe we need to think whether we’re better off not being married. Because I see the way you look at Sherlock, and don’t make that face I’m not saying it’s romantic, I’m saying nothing, but there’s no doubt that you love him more than you love me. Maybe you’re not even aware of it. I don’t know.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” says John, snuggling the baby close to his shoulder. He suddenly remembers that Sherlock bought the hat she’s wearing. He had no idea that Sherlock would even buy baby presents, but he went overboard. He seems to do that though, alternate wildly between no interest and complete over-the-top enthusiasm.

“You don’t have to. Honestly, I want to try and get some sleep. I’ve got a bloody awful headache. I’ll take some paracetamol and go lie down. Go take Addie to see Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” says John, feeling dazed. What just happened? Did his marriage just break up? He should have known that Sherlock doomed any relationship he ever had. Somehow, he thought things with Mary would be different. They seemed to like each other. Mary explicitly said so, Sherlock remembered her name and didn’t say anything misogynistic. That was as close to friendship that Sherlock got with anybody other than John himself, really. Shooting Sherlock had probably ruined any chance of a proper friendship developing, though.

John packs up Addie’s stroller with essentials, threw a change of clothes into an overnight bag and made his way to the main street to catch a cab.

He calls Sherlock, but there’s no answer. He sits at a bus stop, Addie fast asleep, thankfully, and tries again. No answer. He tries a third time, but before it can ring out a black car pulls up.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When you come back around here again /And I know things now that I didn't know then / Well I'll second guess it" - Something for Kate (Kaplan/Thornhill)

May 5, 2015

  


It’s one of Mycroft’s cars, but he’s not in there. A frighteningly large man with a Scottish accent puts John’s things in the back of the car while John puts Addie in the car seat that John didn’t consider in his haste. That was helpful.

John knows better than to engage in conversation, so simply confirms their destination. Baker Street. Addie is awake, and makes gurgling noises at the Scottish bodyguard.

With transport and baby taken care of, John takes a moment to think about what just happened, and what his future plans will be. Will Sherlock even let him stay? It’d be a terrible idea to stay in Baker street long term with a baby, but John expects that Mary would fight him tooth and nail for custody. Taking the baby into a permanent biohazard probably isn’t a good idea. But considering Mary’s whole identity is fraudulent, John would probably have the upper hand regardless.

Maybe John’s getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t really want to divorce Mary. He loves her. Mary is great, really. They get along really well most of the time. And it’s not like Sherlock would want a baby in his flat anyway, once he became accustomed to the noises and smells that Addie can generate.

The car stops. He’s outside the Diogenes Club.

“I thought we were going to Baker Street?” John says to nobody in particular. The Scottish bodyguard is texting on his mobile phone. The bodyguard gets out moves to the passenger side seat at the front and Mycroft sits down at the right side window. Addie looks at him curiously. Mycroft ignores her.

Mycroft naturally notices John’s sour expression.

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says in his smarmiest voice.

“So what is it? Did you intercept my phone calls or bug my flat?”

Mycroft smirks. “One must take precautions. You should be pleased, in any case, you’re getting a free lift to see Sherlock.”

“Uh, cheers mate,” John says, “But I’m definitely creeped out, like I usually am with anything involving you.”

Mycroft looks out the window. “I can assure you, John, that the feeling is entirely mutual.”

John isn’t exactly sure what Mycroft’s problem with him is. They’ve always been uneasy allies in the care of Sherlock Holmes, both incredibly protective of the man. Ever since Sherlock’s return from the dead, things have become frostier. Maybe John was supposed to cope with Sherlock’s apparent death better, maybe he wasn’t supposed to have moved on. John dismisses the thought. There’s no point trying to figure out what’s going on in Mycroft Holmes’ head.

  


*** 

  


The car is parked a fair way down from 221 Baker Street, and John refuses any further assistance from that point. He ducks into Sainsbury’s and buys some baby formula and a six-pack of beer. The woman at the checkout looks at him suspiciously, but says nothing. Everyone’s got an opinion.

When he gets to Baker Street he lets himself in with his old key. Mrs. Hudson isn’t home, or doesn’t hear him come in. Her hearing is getting worse. John briefly wonders if he could persuade her to let him test her hearing.

John leaves the pram at the bottom of the stairs, and walks upstairs with the baby and his shopping. His stuff can wait.

“We’re going to see uncle Sherlock,” he says to Addie in the cutesy voice that most people adopt when speaking with infants, “He’s the funny man with the coat.”

John hesitates. The door flies open.

Sherlock is standing at the door, clad in a red silk dressing gown and a old pair of pyjama bottoms that are too short for him. There’s a hole below his right knee. John recognises them as his own pyjamas. Not really that strange for Sherlock.

The hairs on John’s neck prickle up as Sherlock applies his trademark scrutiny to John. Sherlock is never particularly cruel with his deductions about John, even though John is sure that he could easily be. If John was honest with himself, he would say that he loves Sherlock’s gift – having your secrets laid bare means that you’re no longer burdened by them. And Sherlock is his friend despite it all.

“Fight with Mary, she’s sent you over here while she thinks about the future of your marriage,” Sherlock says quickly. He pauses. “I’m sorry, come in.”

“Can you hold Adeline? I need to grab the rest of her stuff from downstairs,” John says as he thrusts the baby into Sherlock’s arms. John disappears downstairs while Sherlock is left with the baby.

“Hello,” he whispers nervously. It’s the first time he’s been alone with a child. Adeline starts wailing. Sherlock panics. What should he do? Do babies just scream for no reason? Does she hate him? “John?”

John returns, carrying the pram and bag full of baby stuff. He looks at Sherlock, who is utterly terrified.

“It’s okay, Sherlock, don’t freak out,” says John, dropping the stuff on the floor near the front door, “She’s probably freaked out by how huge you are.”

“I’m regular sized,” says Sherlock.

“I think babies can sense fear,” says John, “She’s like a bear or something. More scared of you than she is of you.”

John moves closer, baby still wailing.

“Addie-bear, you remember Sherlock don’t you?” John sniffs her like only a parent can. “I don’t think she’s made a mess of her pants, I think she wants a feed. Give me a minute and I’ll get her settled.”

John prepares the formula while listening to Sherlock entertain the baby. They’re seated on the couch and Addie is still making too much noise. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock is singing to her. It takes John a moment to recognise the lyrics – The Cure’s “Friday I’m in Love”. John joins in, unthinking. He brings the bottle of baby formula to Sherlock and Addie as they get to “I don’t care if Monday’s black”. Sherlock looks up at John and they grin at each other. John’s feeling of misery eases as Addie hungrily gulps down the formula John gives while Sherlock holds her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing,” John remarks.

“I don’t know any children’s songs,” says Sherlock.

“I don’t think she minds,” says John. Addie is more settled now, still in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock burps her awkwardly.

After a few minutes John starts to get restless. It’s about 4pm by now, and he hasn’t gotten a single text from Mary. He knows this because he’s been checking his phone religiously since leaving their place.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock finally says.

“No.”

“Do you want to watch something banal and terrible on Netflix?”

“Okay,” says John, “I think we might be able to get away with letting Addie have a nap in the stroller. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do the job.”

“Actually,” says Sherlock, a faint blush showing up on his cheeks, “I got a little portable cot thing a while ago just in case you came to visit.”

John actually smiles. “You’re going to ruin your reputation as a cold-hearted machine you know? You’re actually the biggest softy I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Sherlock says, “It’s up in your bedroom, I didn’t know where to put it.”

John goes upstairs and gets the cot, noting that his room isn’t as dusty as he’d have expected. It seems aired out, although the bed is inexpertly made. Still neat, but not the hospital corners he usually favours. John wonders who has been staying at Baker Street.

With baby settled, John and Sherlock sit together on the sofa watching some terrible action movie. It reminds Sherlock of old times, where they’d do this exact thing. Sherlock would point out inconsistencies in plots, while John would laugh and insist that the film still had some kind of merit. This time however, Sherlock isn’t paying enough attention to criticise the movie. He’s acutely aware of John’s proximity. John has lost the weight he gained after his wedding and then some. There are a few more grey hairs showing through in his hair. John is slumped back in the sofa; Sherlock is seated upright, staring off into space. He can feel the warmth of John’s body, drawing him closer like gravity. Sherlock eventually relaxes too, but edges away from John so he is on the far side of the sofa.

How Sherlock would love to breach the distance between them. There’s nothing he wants more than to touch John. Sherlock suddenly feels exposed wearing his flimsy dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. He doesn’t move until the film is entering its final act. He picks up his mobile phone from the floor. John looks up at him, and the suddenness of the eye contact startles him.

“Um, I was thinking that Chinese place down the street for dinner? Do you want the usual stuff?”

“Yeah, that’d be brilliant,” John says, “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Oh.” Sherlock wonders if he should have offered John something to eat. That’s what people usually do.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” says John, “I would have raided your cupboards or more likely ducked down to Mrs. Hudson’s if I wanted something to eat.” He pauses. “Maybe put something on if you’re going out though.”

Sherlock goes to get the Chinese food, and they have a quiet evening in. They don’t speak of what brought John back to Baker Street, however, and the only indication that it is 2015 and not 2011 is the fact that there’s a baby who periodically interrupts them. Sherlock and John share the six-pack of beer.

They share the sofa, instead of John sitting in his usual chair. Neither of them comments on it.

“Are you working tomorrow,” asks Sherlock suddenly.

“No, thank god,” says John, “I don’t know how I’d face them. I don’t know how I’d face Mary either. It seems like she was kicking me out for good.”

Sherlock hums, unsure of what to say.

“You know what she said to me?” John asks.

“No?” says Sherlock, resisting the urge to add “And I guess you’ll tell me” because it’s John and John’s feelings are the only feelings he cares about in the world.

“She said I should have married you.”

Sherlock feels as if he’s standing on a fault line, and the earth is starting to crack beneath him.

“She was right too,” continues John, “There’s nobody in the world I’m more myself with, than you.”

Sherlock scrambles for an answer, “People always act different around their spouses. The maintenance of a romantic relationship always requires people to do that.” He pauses. “And there’s the fact that you’re not gay.”

Sherlock stands up and picks up the beer bottles in an attempt to distract himself. John is slightly inebriated, and any declarations he makes are the kind he’ll regret in the morning. He can tell John is at least somewhat aroused. His pupils are dilated and his speech is a fraction quicker than it usually is. Sherlock wonders if it would be such as bad thing to have John in his bed just the once.

John follows him into the kitchen. Sherlock is trapped.

“John,” Sherlock starts, “I want you to think through what you say next.”

“That’s the thing though,” says John, “I’ve been thinking about this since you fell off a building. It’s been at the edge of my mind and I think it took Mary chucking me out to make me realise it. I’ve built this life with her, and you’ve helped, you planned our fucking wedding, and you’re not a person who likes large gatherings of people. You let Mary shoot you and persuaded me to forgive her.”

“But you love Mary,” says Sherlock, “I’m sure of that much.”

John is crowding him now. His back is against the refrigerator. They’re too close. Sherlock isn’t sure if he wants to push John away or pull him closer. He can feel the faint pulse of John’s too-fast breathing. Sherlock’s heartbeat is throbbing in his head.

John takes a deep breath.

“I haven’t forgiven Mary. There’s no way I can forgive her for what she did to you. Even if it was her only way out of a terrible situation. Once I ran through the whole situation in my mind, with the roles reversed. If you had to hurt Mary to save yourself, I’d forgive you. I think sometimes you could be a serial killer and I’d still follow you to the ends of the earth.”

John grasps at Sherlock’s wrists, holds his hands. It feels wonderful.

“I’ve been thinking it over and over this afternoon. And I’ve come to the conclusion that Mary was right. I love Mary. I adore her, I care about her immensely. Because I was married to her we’ve got a baby. I never thought I’d be a father. It’s amazing.” John fiddles with the button on Sherlock’s shirt cuff. “But, you’re always in my head. I see someone acting stupid, and I think about what you’d say.” He puts his left hand on Sherlock’s right bicep. Sherlock feels like a deer caught in the headlights of John’s eye contact. He’s thinking in clichés. “So, I used your methods. I eliminated the impossible.”

“But,” Sherlock starts. His face is flushed and he’s started to sweat a little.

John interrupts. “I’ll try and get to the point here. Sherlock Holmes, you are, without a doubt, the most ridiculous human being on the planet. But, that being said, I am entirely sure of what I am about to say. And I’m bearing my heart out here, so don’t interrupt.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to interrupt,” says Sherlock automatically.

“Smartarse,” says John, but he’s smiling, his expression is affectionate, not exasperated. “So yeah, I probably love Mary. But my feelings for her are completely eclipsed by what you are to me. Basically, there’s nobody who I love as much as I love you.”

Sherlock doesn’t register that sentence straight away. It was shocking enough that John considers him to be his best friend. How could someone like Sherlock be that important to John?

Sherlock feels a cool hand press against his cheek. It brings him back to reality. He tilts his head down, leaning into the touch like an affection-starved cat. He closes his eyes briefly.

“Sherlock, are you still with me?” John asks gently.

Sherlock nods.

“Good,” says John, “Now, I’m hoping I’m not misinterpreting things. You don’t have to say anything. But can I kiss you?”

Sherlock nods. His face is burning.

“Good,” says John, “Good.” He looks up at Sherlock, smiling. “I might need a bit of help with the ah, height difference.”

Sherlock tilts his head downwards, and there’s a moment of hesitation, where their gazes meet and they’re so close. Sherlock has the sudden realisation that this is what he’s always wanted. He’s still pretty sure that John will freak out afterwards, but if he can have just this, he’ll take it. He drinks in John’s desire like he’s dying of thirst. He tentatively strokes the hair near John’s temple. John sighs a tiny bit. Sherlock did that. Emboldened, he crosses the distance and kisses John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to pre-empt the "Netflix and Chill" comments I know you're thinking of by making a disapproving face. >:C


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s all okay / cause love will find a way to be what love is”- Julia Stone (It’s All Okay)

Although John did confess his feelings for Sherlock, he is completely unprepared for how Sherlock is kissing him.

When John, in his weaker moments would fantasise about being with Sherlock, he imagined himself as the bolder of the pair. John imagined himself as a confident lover to Sherlock Holmes. John imagined that, although Sherlock was probably the more dominant of the two in their everyday life (and while out on cases), he would be daring and confident, and able to reduce Sherlock to a whimpering mess. Sherlock didn't seem to be sexually experienced after all. John was, even if it was just with women.

John realises, as Sherlock is kissing him, that as per usual, he didn't think it through. Sherlock is inexperienced, yes. His kissing is sloppy, sometimes too wet and a little too aggressive. At one point Sherlock bites John’s lip so hard he yelps. But Sherlock Holmes approaches kissing like he does everything he doesn't deem _boring_ – with complete and utter single-minded enthusiasm. John feels like he’s drowning. He hasn't gotten hard so soon after kissing somebody since he was a teenager. He wonders if Sherlock has noticed.

“John,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. John wonders if someone could come from hearing a sound. He doesn't intend to find out, though. There are much better ways to get off.

 Large, violinist hands are exploring John’s back. John should probably be a bit more active. But it’s difficult because Sherlock is that much taller. It would be better if they went to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Sherlock,” John says, breathless, “What if we, uh, bedroom?”

Sherlock pulls John closer and is about to say something when John takes his chance and kisses Sherlock on the neck. He grazes his teeth against Sherlock’s carotid pulse point, not hard, but enough for him to feel it. Sherlock groans. John wants the upper hand after all. He drives the point home by lightly ghosting his fingers over Sherlock’s crotch. John is happy to realise that Sherlock is as hard as him.

Sherlock collects himself then practically drags John by his arm to his bedroom and pushes him towards the bed. John stumbles backwards and lands on his back, legs dangling off the end of the bed. Sherlock switches the light on.

“That’s going to be a hell of a bruise on my legs,” says John, wincing slightly, moving up the bed. He’s glad that he already took his shoes and socks off.

“Sorry,” says Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt. He unbuttons the cuffs with a lot more finesse than John would be capable of. He throws the shirt on the floor. John’s gaze instantly goes to Sherlock’s bullet wound.

Sherlock notices. Of course he does.

“I can put something on,” he says, “If it’s a problem.”

“No,” says John, collecting himself. He looks at Sherlock’s lovely shoulders. If John could draw he’d do sketch after sketch of Sherlock’s shoulders. John, feeling more or less together again, smirks at Sherlock. “Give me something else to look at, will you?”

Sherlock takes off his belt and trousers and approaches the bed. John stares at Sherlock’s cock, straining through his pants. It’s not as weird as he expected. In fact, he’s kind of mesmerised. He likes it.

Sherlock climbs on the bed, effectively pinning John down. John pulls Sherlock in for a kiss, then Sherlock breaks away and begins work on John’s shirt. John doesn't think anyone has ever undressed him before. He’s of course, undressed loads of women, but he usually strips with the same efficiency as Sherlock.

Sherlock however, takes his time with John’s shirt. This is probably a good thing, even being reminded of how Sherlock got his scar, and bashing his legs on the bed hasn't really made him any less worked up. A moment to calm down would be good. John doesn't calm down though. Sherlock unfastens one button, then kisses John deeply, makes him feel simultaneously lusted-upon and adored. Sherlock got good at kissing quickly. Another button, another kiss. Another button, and Sherlock’s hands roam John’s chest, teasing at his nipples. John groans.

“You’re going to kill me, Sherlock Holmes,” says John, breathlessly.

“Really?” asks Sherlock, amused. Another button. Sherlock kisses him hard on the mouth, this time.

“I don’t mind,” John mumbles, his hands roaming around Sherlock’s back.

Another button is unfastened. Sherlock’s hands travel to John’s stomach. He’s lost some weight since he started cycling to work, at least.

“Don’t be self-conscious, John, it’s boring,” says Sherlock, “Besides, you’re, um, really attractive for a man of your height and age.”

John giggles. It’s the crime scene over again.

Sherlock unfastens another button. He kisses and licks at John’s lower abdomen. It feels like a promise. He unfastens the last button. Sherlock leans backs and helps John out of the shirt. Sherlock is looking at him so intensely that John feels like a crime scene, a grisly piece of evidence to delight Sherlock. John doesn't mind. He quite likes it, really. Sherlock sees everything, there’s nothing he misses. The old malformed bullet wound is like a hidden fingerprint. John’s grey hairs could be DNA evidence. The wrinkles on his skin are a testimony of where he’s been. Sherlock sees all of John’s flaws and wants him anyway. Someone like Sherlock Holmes wants John Watson. It’s a fucking miracle.

But, more importantly, John is desperate for Sherlock’s touch. He gets impatient so undoes the fly on his own jeans, and Sherlock takes the hint and relieves him of them quickly. John tugs at Sherlock’s pants, and pulls them down.

“Sherlock,” he says, awed. John claims another kiss from Sherlock, then shucks off his own pants. For good measure, John kisses Sherlock again, and feels around for a quick grope of Sherlock’s arse. From the way Sherlock bucks his hips forward, John deduces that was a good move. Sherlock wriggles down the bed a bit and kisses and feels up John’s stomach again. It feels amazing. John strokes Sherlock’s hair and tries very hard to ignore the wedding band on his finger. John forgets about it entirely when Sherlock’s lips touch his cock. He’s only human.

It feels amazing and wonderful and everything he’s ever wanted and it takes all of John’s willpower not to come in seconds flat. It really is like a crime scene because John can’t help but cry out endearments and words of praise for Sherlock – he even calls Sherlock brilliant at one point but he doesn't get mocked. John’s orgasm almost takes him by surprise because he’s been feeling pent up and on the edge for ages and he comes with a strangled cry mere seconds after warning Sherlock.

Sherlock makes a face as he swallows but allows John to pull him up for a cuddle and reciprocation. John feels boneless and worn out but rallies enough to kiss Sherlock sweetly while stroking his cock. John murmurs more endearments “brilliant, you’re so beautiful, love” in between kisses and Sherlock ends up biting John’s lip in the same spot as before when he comes. John bleeds a little but blots it with the nearest thing (Sherlock’s white pillowcase). Sherlock mumbles something about dry cleaning so John grabs Sherlock’s pants to wipe their bodies clean. Sherlock makes a face but allows it.

John throws his pants and shirt back on, before going to the bathroom for a piss and checking on the baby. Adeline is fast asleep, so John can get a little sleep in before changing her. He picks up his phone, there aren't any missed calls from Mary. He sighs but is a little bit relieved. He doesn't quite want to think of her yet.

He returns to Sherlock’s bedroom, removes his shirt and climbs under the covers. Sherlock is completely nude and fast asleep. John snuggles in beside him and it isn't long before he too, falls asleep, sated and comfortable but also feeling quite a bit guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing sex really isn't my area, so I'm posting it and then I'm going to bed and then I'll feel quite a bit awkward about this all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now the days haemorrhage hours / the messengers are overwhelmed delivering / postcards from heaven / virgin telegrams from hell" - Paul Dempsey (Have You Fallen Out of Love?)

John wakes up at about three in the morning. Adeline is wailing in the portable cot in the sitting room because of course she is. That’s okay, John got used to middle of the night feeds and changes pretty quickly. He’s a light sleeper anyway.

The problem is that Sherlock takes an approach to spooning not unlike a large friendly squid or parasitic plant. Being spooned by Sherlock Holmes is wonderful though, but it means that there is no way John can get up without waking him. He grits his teeth. Better to get it over with.

He tries to wriggle free, but Sherlock grips him tighter.

“No, John, stay,” he murmurs, half asleep.

“Sherlock, I’m coming back. It’s the baby,” John says.

“Oh okay,” Sherlock replies, untangling himself from John. He kisses him on the nape of the neck beforehand though. John forces himself out of bed, then leans down and strokes Sherlock’s hair. He leans into the touch. John suddenly realises that even though Sherlock is obviously not inexperienced sexually, it’s rare that he gets any physical affection. John vows to touch Sherlock as much as he allows.

John is dreading the divorce though. He would miss out on so much of Addie’s life. But he can’t stay with Mary, they’ve been unhappy for a long time. It’s not right to stay in a marriage for the sake of a child, the child will suffer regardless. John knows that all too well. Better now, while Addie is a baby and won’t have any memory of the fights.

John changes Addie’s dirty nappy. She doesn’t want to settle afterwards so he tries to amuse her with a puppet of a rainbow coloured parrot. She grabs at it and he lets her take it off his hand. She screws up her face, ready for another wail, so he tries singing to her. While he may trail behind Sherlock when it comes to having perfect pitch, John’s singing voice sounds better, it’s fuller and more confident sounding. Sherlock sounds like a deep voiced child, sometimes. John, unlike Sherlock, knows some nursery rhymes so sings ring-a-round-a-rosy a couple of times until she settles and starts to fall asleep in his arms. John carefully places Adeline in the cot and turns towards the bedroom.

He’s surprised to see Sherlock (in his dressing gown) watching him in the dim light. Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something, but John breaches the distance between them and kisses him instead.

“You’re worried about custody, if you divorce Mary” says Sherlock.

“Yeah, I am, but I don’t want to think about that right now,” John replies, “Let’s go back to bed.”

They do, and Sherlock spoons John for a while. John’s used to being the ‘big spoon’ but he finds that he quite enjoys Sherlock’s arms around him.

“You don’t have to leave her,” says Sherlock after a few minutes, “I’d be happy with just this. Once was more than I could ever dream of anyway.”

There is silence for a while as John thinks.

“If you think,” John responds, “that what he did earlier was just for your own benefit, you’d be completely wrong. Once wouldn’t be enough for me. I’m not sure if a hundred times would be enough.”

Sherlock says nothing, but presses his forehead against the back of John’s head.

***

John wakes with the taste of dried blood in his mouth. Sometime, during the night he’s bumped his lip again and it’s started to bleed. Sherlock is not in bed, he’s fully dressed and showered and hovering around the bedroom door.

Shit, how long did he sleep for.

“I fed, changed and bathed Addie,” says Sherlock, “Well, Mrs. Hudson helped, because apparently I was putting the nappy on backwards, but you don’t have to worry.”

John’s mouth feels dry and disgusting. He can somehow still taste his own second-hand come in his mouth. He did kiss Sherlock afterwards. John sighs and rolls out of bed.

Sherlock looks awkward. He’s probably regretting this.

“I, uh, I’m making food,” says Sherlock, voice a little croaky, “It’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”

The smell of sizzling bacon is wafting in enticingly from the kitchen. It’s good. Sherlock rarely cooks but when he does it’s amazing. He only ever did it when he did something not good, like leave rotting kidneys in the sink.

“That sounds great. I’m just going to have a quick shower.”

After a few minutes under the hot shower spray John starts to feel a bit more human. Cleaning off the evidence of last night however, proves to be more challenging. His calves are bruised from where Sherlock pushed him onto the bed. John pokes at the bruise. That was pretty exciting, really.

There’s no way to pass off that bite off as anything but to Mary though. John will have to be honest. It’s not so much the idea of divorcing Mary that worries John. It’s the process of divorce itself. Legal wrangling. Custody. Awkward drop offs and conversations about Adeline’s education. Fuck. By having a baby he’s basically tied himself to Mary forever. What if this, whatever it is with Sherlock doesn’t last? He’ll have destroyed his family, his most important friendship and will be another faceless divorcee in London.

What is being in a romantic and sexual relationship with Sherlock even going to be like? It’s not likely that regular sex and romantic breakfasts will always be on the table. John isn’t even sure if Sherlock has a normal sex drive to begin with. John on the other hand, likes sex quite a bit. Granted, being in his forties means that things are slowing down a bit, but there are things he likes in a relationship. Lots of sex. Romance. John likes going on dates with his partners. He likes buying them gifts. What would you even get Sherlock as a gift? Certainly not flowers. Maybe a bouquet of livers.

Sherlock seems to like Addie, but will he end up resenting her?

John turns off the water. It’s time to face the day. It’s time to face reality. There’s no point freaking out and speculating. He dresses in the somewhat crumpled clothes he packed in haste to get out. He tries in vain to smooth out the button up shirt he chose. It’s dark blue and fancier than anything else he owns. Sherlock got it for him a couple of years ago. Still fits at least. When it’s ironed it looks quite nice on him. The jeans are the ones he wore yesterday, but thank God for foresight, there’s a clean pair of pants. John brushes his teeth, because his mouth feels disgusting.

John realises something. He can, theoretically, kiss Sherlock whenever he wants. A shave can wait. He rushes out of the bathroom and does precisely that. He kisses Sherlock perhaps more aggressively than he planned to, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. Sherlock’s fingers comb through his damp hair and it feels amazing. John strokes the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

They are interrupted by Mrs. Hudson throwing a wet sponge at them. It hits John on the cheek.

“Don’t you boys think it’s a little early in the day for that?”

“Absolutely not, Mrs. Hudson,” says Sherlock, licking at the scab on John’s lip a little. That should be weird but John doesn’t really mind. He’s too far gone on Sherlock to care about anything right now.

“You might want to save your food from burning,” says Mrs. Hudson, shaking her head.

The breakfast is good, great even, but John is hardly aware of eating it. Even Sherlock is eating some, which is unusual for him. Mrs. Hudson left, thankfully, because Sherlock only made enough for two anyway. John suspects that was deliberate, which is pretty awful, considering how much Mrs. Hudson looks after Sherlock. John can’t bring himself to scold him though.

It’s nice. Adeline is in her stroller, because 221B isn’t exactly equipped full of baby stuff. She’s gurgling away happily, holding a very realistic looking teddy bear. John hopes it’s not a real bear cub. No, real bear cubs are smaller.

“I’m going to try and sort out this whole Mary thing,” says John. He realises he misspoke, because Sherlock looks horrified and heartbroken with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“I mean, I’m going to tell her it’s over,” John clarifies. “I don’t think she wants to be with me, and even if I wanted to lie, there’s no way she’d see my lip as anything other than something inflicted by a person.”

Sherlock is tapping his fingers on the table and worrying at his hair with his other hand. He looks stressed out and distinctly un-Sherlock.

“I don’t know what will happen,” says John, “But I want to be with you. I don’t want to presume I can just move back in here. With all of your experiments it’s not really the best place for a baby, even part time and there’s only two bedrooms here.”

“Your old room could be a nursery,” says Sherlock, “And I could, uh, clean out all the experiments. Maybe I can do more stuff at Barts. Mike Stamford owes me a favour anyway, after I saved his job.”

“Would you really be okay with that?” asks John, “You know if the uh, nature, of us has changed, it might be weird living together straight away. The stuff that we’ve sort of dealt with as flatmates, might be different in a romantic relationship. Also, um, don’t be offended by this, but have you ever been in a romantic relationship?”

Sherlock shovels scrambled egg into his mouth determinedly. He looks down at the plate, avoiding eye contact with John.

“Sorry,” says John, “I just want you to be sure of what you’re getting into. You haven’t been kept awake all night by Addie yet.”

“I want you to come home,” says Sherlock, mumbling a little, egg still in his mouth.

“Okay,” says John gently. He gets up and kisses Sherlock on the cheek. “I’d like that.”

 

John takes the tube back home, having an easier time with less stuff to carry. Just Addie, her stroller and a nappy bag in case of emergencies. He hesitates at the door for a moment.

John turns the key to his flat and calls out Mary’s name. There is no response. He steps inside, and all the lights are still on. He suddenly has a bad feeling. Addie starts crying for no discernible reason.

“Come on Addie, we’re going to see mummy.” This does not stop her wailing.

He walks into the kitchen.

“Mary?”

What he sees in the kitchen defies anything he could have expected. He grabs his mobile phone from his pocket and dials 999.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is love in your body but you can't hold it in / It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin / Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks /And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts" - Florence + the Machine (Hardest of Hearts)

It’s like a movie. It feels like it’s happening to someone else.

Mary is lying on the floor. Her head is straight up against the radiator, like her head dragged against it on the way down. There’s blood, not fresh blood, but thick and congealed coming from her ear. John can’t see her eyes. He’s not sure he wants to.

He checks for a pulse but he knows there’s not going to be one. He’s seen enough bodies to recognise that his wife is dead. Probably has been for a while.

“Hello, this is the ambulance. Are you there?” A woman’s voice.

Oh right, the phone. The baby is wailing, sitting in her pram, ignored.

“Right um, my wife. I’ve just come home with the baby after a night out and uh, well, she’s dead.”

“What’s the address?”

John tells her. “It looks like she’s had a fall.” John turns on the flashlight on his mobile and checks her pupils, leaving the call on speakerphone.

“No pulse, no breathing. Airway isn’t obstructed. No pupillary reaction.”

“I’m going to talk you through some CPR, okay?”

“There’s no point, she’s dead,” says John.

“Let’s wait for the paramedics to be sure, okay? I want you to turn her onto her back and start chest compressions. Do you know how?”

“Of course I bloody know how,” says John, “I’m a doctor. So I know dead when I see it.”

“I need you to do the compressions, okay?”

“I’m telling you, she’s completely dead!” John shouts, “She’s completely cold, and she’s lying in a pool of congealed blood. It’s been hours.”

“There’s no need to shout, dear, help is on the way.”

Addie is screaming.  

“Look, I need to change the baby,” says John, and he hangs up and does just that. A few minutes later there is a knock at the door – it’s the ambulance. They come in and look at Mary, confirm what John already knows. Mary is gone. One of them steps away, for a few minutes.

John calls Sherlock, but is unable to verbalise anything. Thankfully, Sherlock is able to figure out something terrible has happened and tells John he will catch a cab immediately. John sinks down onto the floor in the kitchen, cradling Adeline. She has settled a bit, and is tolerating John holding her close. John kisses the top of her head.

“What are we going to do, Addie?” he mumbles. It feels like an endless sea of people coming in. The coroner. A more senior paramedic. There is a knock at the door, and John scrambles up, expecting Sherlock at the other side.

He opens the front door.

It’s Donovan and a young male police officer who John recognises, but does not know the name of.

“John,” says Sally, shocked. “We’d been told the name Watson, but I didn’t want to think it was your place.”

The male officer offers his hand. “PC Simon Briggs.”

Dazed, John lets them in. They sit in the living room, as Mary’s body is still in the kitchen.

“John, I’m so sorry about Mary,” says Sally, “But you know, standard procedure. We just need a statement about what happened.”

“Right,” says John, still holding Adeline close.

“Just start from the beginning,” says Briggs.

“Well um, Addie and I were visiting with Sherlock last night,” says John.

“Sherlock?” says Briggs.

“We were visiting my friend Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street,” John clarifies, “We stayed there overnight.”

“Is that safe for a baby?” asks Donovan, “Sorry.”

John scowls at her. “I guess we were there from around fifteen hundred hours, and as soon as I came home I found Mary, lying by the radiator so I called triple-nine. I think she’s been dead for several hours.”

“We’ll have to verify this with Sherlock Holmes, is that okay?” asks Donovan gently.

“Yes,” says John.

Briggs is looking at John suspiciously. “That mark on your lip, where did you get that? Did you get into a fight?”

John blushes. “No, ah.”

“How did you get it then?”

Donovan gives Briggs a dirty look.

“Did it happen last night?” Briggs presses.

“Well, uh, yes,” says John, “Not a fight though.”

“Look, I’m not going to judge, John, I’ve known you and Sherlock too long to do that. But what Briggs is getting at, is, well, was that from Sherlock?”

John nods. “It wasn’t exactly great, the way Mary and I left things yesterday.”

 

* * *

Sherlock sees the paramedic, the coroner’s van, the police car. Something terrible has happened. Suddenly, he starts to feel queasy. He vomits on the pavement outside John’s block of flats.

Sherlock feels as if all the air has been squeezed out of his lungs. He can’t catch his breath. He breathes in, a gasp, and his lungs barely inflate.

This is a panic attack.

It’s been quite a while since he’s had one of those. That was in Serbia. Being tortured by gangsters is a reasonable trigger for a panic attack. Sherlock thinks that he needs to keep it together. He closes his eyes, and concentrates on slowing his breathing. Eventually it works. He feels almost normal again.

He needs to have it together. John needs him. He’s sure something happened to Mary, considering he heard Addie in the background of their phone call.

Sherlock thinks that if Mary is dead it’ll make things simpler for John and Addie to live with him and then hates himself for the thought. Besides, John is a profoundly moral man. He will feel guilty, if Mary died while he was with Sherlock. It’ll ruin everything. Sherlock knows this is selfish. He feels unworthy of John.

He will be whatever John needs. He walks up to the second floor flat occupied by the Watson family. Knocks on the door.

John answers, weary, and looking absolutely wrecked.

“Please tell me I’m wrong,” says Sherlock.

John glances up at him.

“You’re never wrong, Sherlock.”

* * *

Eventually, the body is moved away, with a promise from the coroner that they would find out what caused Mary’s death. John is pretty sure it was a subarachnoid haemorrhage, at any rate. He figures that it was probably due to an aneurysm. Stress is a known cause of aneurysms rupturing. A common source of stress is scumbag cheating husbands. Even if John had never touched Sherlock before last night, the fact remains that John has been having an emotional affair with Sherlock for years. He just never admitted it to himself.

Sally squeezes John’s hand as she leaves. They never liked each other, but it dawns on John that Sally Donovan is a good police officer and a good person. God knows that Sherlock wasn’t any less hostile to Sally as Sally was to him.

Sherlock sits with John on the sofa once everybody else leaves, a respectable distance between them. Sherlock makes tea, because he likes the ritual. John drinks it because he needs something to do with his hands. He does not look over at the space between the kitchen and the hallway, he does not look at the radiator and the blood stained carpet.

After about half an hour, John speaks. “I feel like this isn’t real. You know what stuff is freaking me out? Making funeral arrangements. One of the people here handed me a card. I think she was a funeral director. How the hell did a funeral director know? And I have to tell people. Mary’s friends. Janine. I have to tell everyone at the clinic. I have to tell Vodafone. The mortgage company. What the hell happens when Mary Watson wasn’t even her real name? Does that make our home loan fraudulent? Will they send me to jail? I have to cancel her fucking Spotify account. We both got life insurance when we found out Mary was pregnant. So I have to deal with that. Did she do it under her real name, or the fake one? What the fuck do I do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock takes John’s hand, and holds it gently.

“Do you want me to do it? I can tell the clinic and arrange the funeral. And I’ll get Mycroft to work on the insurance and mortgage stuff.”

“You know Mycroft hates me, right?” John says.

“True. But he’ll do anything his baby brother asks,” says Sherlock, “I can tell him I’m so worried about John I’m thinking of relapsing.”

John ignores that remark. “Fuck, what about the carpet? How am I supposed to get all that blood out?”

“I’ll sort it,” says Sherlock.

John leans into Sherlock’s body, draping Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder. “Can we just sit like this for a while?”

Sherlock kisses the top of John’s head. “Okay.” He doesn’t say anything when his shirt becomes wet from John’s tears. John eventually falls asleep in Sherlock’s embrace.

Years ago, Sherlock would have never comforted a friend or offered to do difficult things for them. Granted, John is the first person that Sherlock properly considered as a friend. But still, Sherlock wonders if maybe his edges have been softened by loving John. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as he’d have expected.

Sherlock can be strong for John’s sake, and he really feels quite honoured to be able to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel horrible for what I did to Mary. It's not the last we'll hear about her though. I don't know if you readers remember Buffy, when her mum died. It was so poignant an episode because out of all the ways people could die in Sunnydale, Buffy's mum died from something completely ordinary. Something the Slayer was powerless against. 
> 
> I am not saying I'm even close to that level of emotional feelings, but this plot has been bubbling in my head for quite some time as a trigger to Parentlock happening. 
> 
> And unfortunately, the way John found Mary is based on a story a nurse once told me. She was working in community-based nursing, and her patient had a stroke or something, and his head was stuck underneath the radiator. She could tell the guy was dead, it was obvious, but the emergency services person on the phone made her attempt CPR on someone who was dead for hours. Kind of harrowing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's forget about the tongue-tied lightning  
> Let's undress just like cross-eyed strangers  
> This is not a joke, so please stop smiling  
> What was I thinking when I said it didn't hurt?
> 
> \- Wilco (I am Trying to Break Your Heart)

The funeral is over in the blink of an eye. John has been hugged by many people, some of whom he vaguely remembers from the wedding. Christ, that wasn’t very long ago at all. John can’t remember any content from the service, but there were lillies (Mary’s favourite) and Sherlock stayed at his side throughout the whole thing. People who John hardly recognises tell stories about Mary that he’s never heard.  

It’s the afternoon now, and the flat is empty, save for Sherlock, John and Addie. Sherlock wants very badly to kiss John. Problem being, Sherlock knows enough of social conventions (in theory) to be aware that kissing John after his wife’s body has been taken away is probably not good. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do in situations like this. Make tea? Done. Sherlock rather enjoyed his, being of the brand he favours, but John has barely touched his.

The baby is asleep, and John is sitting on the sofa. He’s staring at the television, which is switched to BBC news. Sherlock is surprised to see that there had been an election on. Seems like there is the same prime minister as before. Sherlock can’t remember which party. He doesn’t particularly care. He doesn’t think John cares either, given the circumstances of the last week.

It’s cold. Sherlock wanders over to the hall cupboard and rummages through the linens. There’s a blanket, quite a few years old that Sherlock recognises. It’s a crochet granny-square blanket that Mrs. Hudson had made for him. It’s blue and green and Sherlock kept it on his bed when it was particularly cold. It’s a huge blanket really, made of soft loamy wool. There’s a small percentage of angora rabbit yarn in there as well. He hasn’t thought about it since he jumped off the roof at Bart’s all those years ago.

Sherlock smiles. John took this from Baker Street when he moved out, rather than his own. John’s grief at his apparent passing was unexpected. Sherlock never really expected to be important to anyone, even John. The fact that John mourned him so thoroughly is kind of lovely. Sherlock doubts that John would approve. But John’s grief over him made him feel cared about in a way that platitudes from his parents never did.

He carries the blanket over to John and drapes it over him clumsily.

“This is my blanket,” says Sherlock, “I’ll expect it returned.”

John looks at him blankly, then budges over on the sofa to make room for Sherlock to sit down.

“After your funeral,” says John, “I tried to corner Mycroft. I wanted your scarf.”

“But you never wear scarves,” says Sherlock.

“That’s what your brother said as well. I told him it was for sentimental reasons, and he rolled his eyes at me. Like a teenage girl. I wanted to punch him in the face, but Mrs. Hudson must have seen my expression because next thing I knew, she was pushing me into a cab, muttering to me about not making a scene. She’s surprisingly strong.”

Sherlock pulls a corner of the blanket and drapes it over his chest.

“When I went back to Baker Street, I went into your bedroom. I don’t think I had ever really been in your room much before, except for when we dragged you back from Irene Adler’s place, drugged out of your mind.”

Sherlock wonders if he should say something, but John continues.

“I went into your room, and I looked at everything that was in there. I had never really taken any notice of how you kept your room. It was so tidy. The rest of the flat is complete chaos, but your room was tidy. This blanket was draped over the top of your bed. I was exhausted, and your bed looked so inviting. I guess I wanted to just wallow in a reminder of what you were like for a while. The mattress was so comfortable. It smelled so good. I guess it smelled of you, but it was just really comforting.”

Sherlock desperately wants to kiss John. At the very least, he could retreat into his mind and replay last night in his head again and again. Sherlock has never been more grateful for the memory techniques he was taught as a young boy, because he can still remember the exact feel of John’s stubble on his lips, the taste of his come, the sounds he made. Instead though, he nods. He isn’t quite sure where John is going with this conversation.

“So there I was,” says John, fidgeting with the tassels on the edge of the blanket, “lying in your bed, wrapped up in your blankets, and all I could smell was your cologne, your sweat, whatever smells make up you. There were even some hairs on the pillow. I felt so raw. But that was probably when I realised what you meant to me. When I had lost you.”

“Oh,” says Sherlock.

“It was horrible, realising I loved you, after I lost you. Why couldn’t I have figured it out the day we met? Or after meeting Moriarty at the pool? Or literally any time before you died? I could have done something with the knowledge.”

“To be honest with you, John,” says Sherlock, “I don’t know if I would have been at all receptive to the idea back then. Relationships aren’t really my area.”

“I suppose not,” says John.

“Look on the bright side, John,” says Sherlock, “While I was legally dead, you were able to successfully date a woman without me there to sabotage things.”

John laughs.

“I liked Mary,” says Sherlock. “She was better than any of the other women you dated.”

“Yeah, she was,” says John. “I just wish that things were different. Things were so good. She understood me more than any other woman, I think. But after Magnussen, things were terrible between us. I couldn’t forgive her for shooting you.”

“You should,” Sherlock says, “I forgave her. You forgave me for much worse.”

“She married me and I don’t even know who she really was.”

“You know who she was,” says Sherlock, “You just don’t know her life story.”

“I guess,” says John, brow furrowed.

Sherlock decides to take a risk and puts his arm around John’s shoulders. John closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“It’s just so fucked up,” says John.

“I really wanted you to be happy,” says Sherlock. “I’m not sure I’m capable of it though.”

John stands up, and touches Sherlock’s hair. His hand is pressed against Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock sighs a little and closes his eyes briefly. John’s hand is steady, and warm. They aren’t as rough as they used to be, Mary must have made him understand that moisturising is vital when you wash your hands as frequently as a doctor. Sherlock briefly allows himself to think about how John’s hand felt against his cock.

John pulls his hand away. His cheeks are slightly pink. It’s glorious.

“Sherlock, you can’t look at me like that right now,” he says, in the _stop pickpocketing Lestrade_ voice, the one he puts on when Sherlock has done something bad. It’ll drive Adeline crazy as well when she gets older.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to devour me,” says John.

“I don’t,” says Sherlock, frantically, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says John, shaking his head, “Thing is, I want to let you.”

John kisses Sherlock lightly on the lips.

“Your lips feel too good. God, the fantasies I’ve had about your mouth.”

“John,” Sherlock says, “It’s not a good idea. Not yet. You’ll feel guilty. You’ll resent me.”

John kisses him again, this time more forcefully. He straddles Sherlock on the sofa, runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock closes his eyes. It’s too arousing.

“John,” Sherlock says again.

“Shut up,” says John, loosening Sherlock’s tie. John presses his hand against Sherlock’s crotch. He’s half-hard already, and John’s touch only escalates matters.

Sherlock places his hands on John’s shoulders, ready to push him off.

“Sherlock, it’s pretty obvious that you want this. I don’t need to be you to figure that out.”

“I do,” Sherlock admits, “But, I don’t know if you really do.”

John kisses him again, invades his mouth, to be more precise. It feels amazing. John’s lip is healing, nearly healed really. Nobody but Sherlock Holmes would notice that detail.

Sherlock kisses him back, with the desperation of a drowning man. He’s only human. Sherlock’s shirt has been unbuttoned, and John is roughly shrugging it off Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock lets him do this. His belt and trousers are removed swiftly after that. John’s hands are everywhere it seems. It feels like that anyway.

Sherlock is now lying on his back on the sofa in his pants and it feels like John has touched every inch of his upper body. He feels like he’s on fire, so aroused he could come any minute. John is still in his shirt and suit trousers from the funeral, although he dispensed with the tie and belt the second he got inside. Sherlock starts fumbling with John’s buttons before giving up entirely and unbuttoning the trousers. He shoves John’s trousers and pants down to his knees. Sherlock licks his hand and then wraps it around John’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” John mutters between strokes, “Your fucking hands. They’re huge.”

“Good of you to notice,” says Sherlock, “You’ve only seen my hands a couple of times before, after all.”

“Of course you’d make jokes during sex,” says John, laughing.

Sherlock uses his free arm to pull John a little closer. He breathes in John’s smell – sweat, cologne, flowers from the church service. It’s lovely. John is making little noises, and his breathing is speeding up. John closes his eyes. He’s close, Sherlock thinks, and speeds up his strokes a little. John comes with a sigh shortly after. John collapses on top of Sherlock and rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Let me take care of you,” John says.

 

Right on cue the baby cries.

“Sorry,” says John as he gets up. John tidies himself up and goes to tend to the baby, while Sherlock finishes himself off in the bathroom. He doubts there will be any more sex tonight. Sherlock then rummages through John and Mary’s small collection of liquor. He decides on a red wine. He pours two glasses. What Sherlock would really like is a cigarette, but he doesn’t have any.

In the living room there is a small electric piano. It’s not a particularly high-end model, and Sherlock typically abhors electric keyboards. He takes a sip of the wine (decent) and switches it on. He starts to play. Sherlock learned both piano and violin as a child, although he strongly favours the violin. A lot more portable, so useful for playing alone. He’s quite skilled at the piano, though.

He starts playing. It’s a moderately faithful rendition of Miles Davis’s “All Blues”. Mary was a fan of jazz music. John will listen to any music quite happily, so long as you don’t tell him what it is beforehand so he doesn’t worry about genre. Sherlock knows now that John’s taste in music is a lot more diverse than he himself believes.

Sherlock finds himself lost in the music. While he wouldn’t call himself a good jazz musician, he enjoys the improvisation it allows compared with the rigid rules of classical. He puts effort into his playing.

He plays for a while, not realising that John is watching him. When he concludes the piece, he looks behind him to see John resting on the arm of the sofa, hair wet, clad in pyjamas. He’s holding a half-empty wine glass.

“That was lovely,” John says, “Mary used to play that record a lot. It sounds different with just a piano though.”

“I’ll go home soon,” Sherlock says.

“You don’t have to do that,” says John.

“I think I do, John,” Sherlock says softly. He gets up from the keyboard, switching it off. He turns towards the front door, but John grabs him by the wrist. Sherlock pulls John into an embrace. They stay like that for a while, neither of them daring to move. Sherlock ends up pulling away first.

“I’ll be at Baker Street when you’re ready to come home,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock leaves John’s flat and makes his way to the tube station. Sherlock knows that John doesn’t regret sleeping with him the night of Mary’s death. Sherlock knows that John does love him. Sherlock also knows that John is a monogamist at heart so he’s feeling guilty for breaking Mary’s trust. Sherlock knows that John feels guilty for not loving Mary as much as he should.

That doesn’t explain the churning feeling of anxiety in Sherlock’s stomach though. He feels nauseous. Why is it, that a week ago, Sherlock was satisfied with friendship? John initiated things tonight, but Sherlock should have refused him. Sherlock has enough self-awareness to know that he just replaces one addiction for another, and right now, John is his cocaine.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would be terrified if I could read your mind / so tell me baby what's so good about being understood" - Paul Dempsey (Strange Loop)

****

It’s been a week since John and Sherlock have spoken, save for a few text messages back and forth. They haven’t spoken about the night of Mary’s funeral, as neither of them has brought it up. Sherlock is at John’s front door – Mrs. Hudson has given him a small suitcase full of frozen food to take for John, as he must be terribly busy with the baby and nobody to help him. Sherlock didn’t point out that John insisted he was doing fine.

Sherlock knocks on the door.

“John?”

There is no answer. He calls for John again, and waits for a few minutes before deciding to just pick the lock. The security at John’s flat is terrible, Sherlock really must do something about that.

Just as Sherlock unlocks the door, John opens it. He’s wearing a red t-shirt with a graphic of a man shooting a record player. He’s been wearing it for days – there’s food, baby spit-up and it smells of John’s body odour. John hasn’t shaved for a few days. It’s nothing like John with a moustache. If John’s personal hygiene was better at this point in time it’d be attractive. Right now he looks rightly dishevelled.

“Nice t-shirt.”

“Uh yeah, got it off Bill Murray.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment. He looks embarrassed. Probably because Sherlock is impeccably dressed as usual, and John looks, well, like that.

“Are you going to let me in or are you going to continue pointlessly worrying about your smell now that somebody who is capable of complaining about it can see you?” Sherlock says, a little crueller than he meant.

John steps inside, Sherlock follows.

“Uh, do you want tea?” John says, rummaging through the mugs sitting on the sink. They’re all filthy. He looks in the cupboard, closes it.

“Go have a shower, and put on something clean.”

John sighs, and glances over towards the bathroom.

“It’s just,” he says. John runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s stupid.” He licks his lips. “Fuck.”

John looks stressed out. Sherlock isn’t sure what’s wrong, but he expects that John will say it eventually.

“It’s so stupid of me. It’s just, everything in the bathroom reminds me of Mary. There’s her shampoo, her body wash, makeup. All this girly shite that I don’t understand, that all has these different smells that remind me of her.”

John runs his fingers through his hair again. He needs to wash it.

“I feel like a fucking fraud, Sherlock,” John says. “I’m completely wrecked without her. I can’t look at her things without breaking down. But I was going to ask for a divorce, Sherlock. What right do I have to be sad?”

“Do you think you would have, though?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know,” John says, “But I wanted to. It’s fucking hard.”

“You definitely need a shower, though.”

John nods and walks towards the bathroom. Sherlock sits on the sofa (smaller, firmer than the one at Baker Street). After a few minutes, Sherlock hears the shower start up. He gets up, and starts to stack the dishwasher. It’ll take more than the one load, but it’s a start. Sherlock hates cleaning. But John isn’t coping, it’s so obvious that Lestrade would realise it. By the time Sherlock has finished cleaning the kitchen, the shower is still running. He starts the kettle (there is some water in there).

John has been a while. It would be a good idea to check on him. Sherlock approaches the bathroom door, unsure of whether he should just open it. The water stops running.

Sherlock hears muffled sobs from behind the door. He decides to throw caution to the wind (since when has Sherlock been cautious?) and opens it.

John is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked, holding his dirty t-shirt. Water is dripping off his body. He’s clean, but still unshaven. His face is flushed, eyes bloodshot. It takes all of Sherlock’s willpower to keep his eyes above the waist.

“I forgot a towel,” John says flatly.

“Shall I fetch one?” asks Sherlock. “Where are they kept?”

“Hall cupboard. Thanks.”

Sherlock leaves then returns with the towel. He hands it to John, who dries himself then gets dressed. Sherlock sits on the closed toilet and watches, transfixed. John is efficient in his hygiene routines, and is quickly dressed and shaved. His hair is still damp, but he quickly ruffles it dry with the towel. It reminds Sherlock of a dog. He couldn’t dry his own hair that way without it getting completely frizzy. Sherlock is like a poodle, requiring careful grooming, whereas John is like a yellow (greying) Labrador. He can just shake off the water and look gorgeous.

John glances at Sherlock, as if he’s deciding whether to do something. He shrugs, and then walks out of the bathroom’s other door that leads to his and Mary’s bedroom. John leaves the door open.

Sherlock follows a minute later, and finds John sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. John beckons for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock sits down, and John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock taps his hands on his knees, unsure of whether John wants Sherlock to touch him.

After a while, Sherlock speaks.

“You know, you’re allowed to be sad.”

They sit in silence for some time. Sherlock hears John’s breathing become steadier. He hadn’t even noticed it was quicker and slightly uneven. Emotional distress. Makes sense. John’s body is warm against his. It’s lovely. Sherlock catalogues the percentage of grey hairs on the top of John’s head. Sherlock is a little envious about how it suits John. Sherlock will have to dye his hair when the grey’s come in. He can’t have anybody thinking that Sherlock Holmes does something as ordinary as age. John’s hair smells of cheap shampoo, but it’s clean. Sherlock remembers the scent as the same that he often used back when they lived together. John would always buy whatever was the cheapest, which was often this particular brand. It’s a familiar, if artificial smell. It’s John.

Sherlock is roused from his contemplation of John’s hair by John’s hand idly stroking his. John’s hands are softer than usual, having been away from the clinic for a while. Hand washing has gone from constant to simply frequent.

Sherlock, who until this point hasn’t moved, curls his fingers and holds John’s hand. John responds by nuzzling into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock feels as if his heart might stop at any moment. John touching his hand – it’s more than he ever expected to get and it’s exhilarating. Even more so is the fact that he’s had more than that.

“This is getting uncomfortable on the floor,” John says, “Bed?”

The two men scramble up, Sherlock shucks off his jacket and shoes. The two men lie on top of the bed covers together. John has changed the sheets but the room still reminds Sherlock very much of Mary. The way the room is decorated is decidedly feminine, light and airy with photos of the wedding on the walls. Mary’s things – hair pins, a pair of pantyhose under the bed, blonde hairs that are too fair and long to come from John are still scattered around.

But then John rolls over to face Sherlock and it’s glorious. John tentatively places his hand on Sherlock’s waist.  He rubs Sherlock’s skin through the fabric of his expensive white shirt. It’s a kind of closeness and affection that Sherlock didn’t know he was missing, didn’t know he was craving. Before he knows what he is doing, Sherlock pulls John closer so he is half on top of Sherlock.

John kisses him on the side of the mouth. Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes. John kisses him again, on the other side.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you off last time,” says John.

“Oh,” says Sherlock, “It’s fine.”

“I can,” John says, “If you want.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, eyes wide, mouth agape.

John kisses him. It’s so good. Sherlock runs his fingers over John’s freshly shaved face. Sherlock adores John like this, freshly showered, refreshed. He looks about ten years younger when he’s not visibly stressed out and unwrapped from his ordinary, wolf-in-sheep’s clothing persona. He may be in well-worn pyjamas but this John seems more accessible to Sherlock, more vulnerable. Sherlock wants nothing more than to remove John’s clothing.

So he does, slowly, because Sherlock cannot bring himself to stop enveloping John’s small mouth with his own. Unbuttoning pyjama shirts is difficult when you can’t see what you’re doing and you’re used to sight. So John pushes Sherlock away and unbuttons his own clothing, and shoves Sherlock’s hands at his own chest. They both remove their pyjamas, tops then bottoms, then pants. Clothing ends up strewn across the room.

Sherlock can’t quite remember everything that happens, but it involves John saying “get those huge fucking hands on me” and John making frantic, amazing sounds before spilling onto the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand. He gropes for a packet of tissues on the nightstand (Mary’s doing, John would never have the foresight to buy tissues for more than one room in the flat). Afterwards John puts his mouth to Sherlock’s cock and it feels like torture trying to last more than thirty seconds flat but he ends up lasting a couple of minutes before John spits into another fortunately placed tissue.

John gets up afterwards to grab a couple flannels to clean up with, then puts on his pants and dressing gown and checks on the baby. She’s still fast asleep. John returns after what feels like and age and Sherlock desperately wants to cuddle but he’s unsure how to ask for that. He gives up on being coherent and instead gestures with his arms open and mumbles “John”.

John climbs into bed. Sherlock wraps his arms around John burrows his face in the crook of his neck. He’s a bit sweaty from the sex but so is Sherlock and the smell of post-sex John is something Sherlock doesn’t ever want to forget. Sherlock feels relaxed now, and he finds himself drifting off to sleep.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly and looks at John, who has disentangled himself and looks tense.

“I don’t want to lose you,” John continues.

“You’re not going to lose me,” says Sherlock, relaxed and less observant than he normally is. “You can have me forever.”

“Let me finish,” John says, avoiding eye contact. He stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to lose you. I think that this, what we’re doing, it’s not the right time. I know what I want, and that’s you. But every time I give in and I touch you, I feel sick.”

 Sherlock groans.

“I didn’t come here for sex you know,” Sherlock says. He gets off the bed, picks up his crumpled clothing off the floor and dresses. “Besides, you were the one who started it. You wanted to go to bed. I’m not as naïve about sex as people like to think. I know you wanted it.”

“I know. I would have sex with you every day if I could,” John replies.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I feel like I’m cheating on Mary.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He hates being this inarticulate. There are so many things that Sherlock wants to say, like “To hell with Mary, run away with me!” and “Mary’s dead, you can’t cheat on her!” but Sherlock knows they won’t go over well.  So he opts to say very little.

“I should go,” Sherlock says.

“I’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t I?” says John, rubbing his forehead.

Sherlock changes his mind about not speaking.

“I understand that Mary has just died, you need space. You need to process things. I believe that’s normal for people,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, thank you for understanding.”

“Let me finish. You’ve known me for well over five years. You know what I am, John. I’m an addict. You name it, I’m addicted. Opiates. Cocaine. Adrenaline. Being cleverer than the Metropolitan Police Force combined.”

Sherlock tries in vain to smooth out his shirt.

“What I’m trying to say is, I don’t have the willpower. You kiss me, I’m going to kiss you back. You touch me, I’m going to hold on to you like you’re the most precious… the most precious fucking thing in the universe.”

Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair.

“Even if it makes you feel guilty, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. I love you, but I’m a junkie. I’ll prioritise getting a fix over your wellbeing every time.”

John sits up in bed, staring.

“I promise I won’t try and…” Sherlock screw up his face as if the words are distasteful, “get a leg over on you, but if you try and initiate anything, I’ve got no willpower.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John says, “It’s not fair to put this all on you. I’m utter shit.”

“I should go,” Sherlock says.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Declarations, misunderstandings, poor decisions all around. Sorry, not sorry. This chapter took a long time because I wanted to make it happier. At least it's longer?


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We either think that we’re invincible / Or that we are invisible / But realistically we’re somewhere in between" - Courtney Barnett (Kim's Caravan)

“Um.” Molly Hooper has just arrived home after a horrible shift at work to find Sherlock Holmes, curled up in her bed. Toby, the traitorous bastard is lying on his legs.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

Sherlock groans and rolls away from the noise Molly is making.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” Molly says, “A couple years ago I might have been thrilled with the idea of you in my bed, but not anymore. Get out.”

“Don’t you want to know how I got in?” Sherlock asks, still facing away from Molly.

“Nope,” Molly says, before pulling at the duvet covering Sherlock. Toby leaps off, meowing angrily.

Sherlock is wearing his underwear, but nothing else.

“Um, Sherlock,” Molly says, “This is probably pushing the boundaries of our friendship a bit there. Also I’m planning on sleeping tonight.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, but sits up in the bed, back resting against the headboard. Molly sighs.

“Fine,” she says, before exiting the room. She’s gone for about twenty minutes, during which time Sherlock rolls around the bed trying to get comfortable.

Molly returns in worn flannelette pyjamas, carrying a bottle of cheap red wine. She takes a swig before handing it to Sherlock. She climbs into bed.

Sherlock takes a long sip of the wine. “This is awful.” He takes another sip anyway.

“That’s not what we say when nice people bring you alcohol, is it?” says Molly, snatching the bottle from him.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles.

Molly hands Sherlock the bottle. “Okay, you’re freaking me out now. First showing up at my flat is weird enough, but now you’re apologising like a person who has some concept of what manners are. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’ve been having sex with John.”

“What? For how long? John’s disgusting. How could he do that as soon as his wife dies?” Molly says, shocked.

“It’s not like that,” says Sherlock, looking at the wine bottle.

“I don’t blame you, Sherlock,” Molly says, taking the bottle off Sherlock and having a sip, “I know how you feel about John.”

“How does everyone know that?”

“It’s obvious,” Molly says, “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like he’s precious.”

Toby enters the room and jumps up onto the bed. He positions himself on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock absently pats him.

“Technically it started before Mary died,” Sherlock says, stroking the cat. “The night before. John and Mary had a fight, he came to Baker Street with the baby.”

“Holy shit, a baby in Baker Street. Not exactly child-safe, is it?” Molly interrupts.

“He was going to leave her,” Sherlock says.

“And now it’s all complicated and horrible,” Molly says, “It would have probably been easier with a divorce.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. Toby purrs at Sherlock.

“Toby likes you,” Molly says, “That’s more than can be said for most of the blokes I bring around here.” She hands Sherlock the wine. Sherlock takes a big swig.

“For what it’s worth, Sherlock, I think John can go fuck himself. I don’t care if he’s having emotional turmoil or whatever. He needs to sort himself out and treat you better.”

“I love him, Molly,” Sherlock says glumly.

“I know you do,” Molly says, “Poor, stupid Sherlock Holmes.”

“Would have been easier if I was into you,” Sherlock replies.

“For who?” Molly asks, “Certainly not for me. You’re a nightmare. Besides, I kind of assumed you were gay.”

“Everyone makes assumptions, you’re reasonably clever, I hoped you were clever enough to be above that,” Sherlock mutters.

“Sorry,” Molly says, grabbing the wine bottle and putting it on her bedside table. “Come here.” She pulls Sherlock into an embrace. “I’m sorry you have such shitty taste in men. That’s something you and I have in common.”

Toby meows in protest and jumps off the bed.

“John’s not shitty,” Sherlock mumbles into Molly’s collarbone, “He’s lovely.”

“He’s definitely shitty. John Watson is the definition of shitty,” Molly says. “But I guess you can’t help being a stupid, pathetic, sad bisexual baby who falls for idiots like him.”

Molly pats Sherlock on the back.

“He’ll come around, Sherlock. For what it’s worth I think he loves you almost as much as you love him.”

They’re about to drift off to sleep when Sherlock suddenly speaks.

“You haven’t met my brother, have you?”

“Nooo, now stop talking.”

"Okay. Get tequila next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Sherlock and Molly becoming good friends. Lestrade too, but he'll get his time to shine later on.
> 
> The tequila comment is just a homage to Shonda Rhimes and Grey's Anatomy - Meredith and Cristina would often drink tequila, and they'd also share a bed complaining about boys. Was quite funny when Cristina would kick Derek out of Meredith's bed so they could talk. 
> 
> I can't imagine Sherlock and Molly dancing out their angst though while staying marginally in character though. Although that would be amazing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul  
>  Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you? - Bob Dylan (Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some cute phone-flirting to tide you over. This took a really long time because I went on a trip to the Sunshine Coast, and well, making friends with every dog and perving on surfers took precedence over fanfiction.

John wakes up the next morning to the sound of a baby screaming her head of. He’s not sure how something so small can make such a large sound, but he figures that owners of Chihuahuas and Pomeranians think the same thing.

He doesn’t resent Addie for making the noise, but a lie in would be lovely. That’s something he’s had to accept will never happen again as long as his daughter is around. John isn’t resentful though. The baby is wonderful. The responsibility of having Addie to take care of makes his grief a little more bearable.

John gets into his morning routine with the baby, ensuring she’s fed and dry and all the other stuff that comes with parenting.

He should call Sherlock.

John finds his mobile phone and starts to swipe to Sherlock’s number in his contacts. He probably won’t answer anyway. John calls, regardless. At least Sherlock will know he’s thinking of him.

The phone is answered on the first ring.

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock’s not able to talk right now,” Molly says tersely.

“Is he alright?” John asks. He understands that he’s probably unhappy, and not dismembered in a hospital somewhere, but John always worries.

“Physically fine,” Molly says and hangs up.

John doesn’t really like Molly all that much. It’s nothing about her, although he thinks she’s terrible at putting on a meek and demure act. She’s shy, but there’s fire in her. John probably doesn’t like Molly because they’re similar. They both think they’re sociable people when really they’re not. Both John and Molly are in the medical profession, although a morgue is even less exciting than a suburban general practice. They both adore Sherlock. They both present to the world as mild, inoffensive people. Molly reflects the things he doesn’t particularly like about himself.

It’s unreasonable. Molly is nice. If John were to be honest with himself, he would admit he’s a little jealous. He wants to be the only person to monopolise Sherlock’s time. Which isn’t fair. Sherlock deserves to have a life outside of him.

John sits at the kitchen table, baby in arms, while he has a think. Well that’s the plan. Addie makes a cute gurgling noise, so John puts on his best goofy dad voice and starts with “This little piggy went to market”.

John fiddles around with his phone and connects it to the Bluetooth speaker. Sherlock had to set him up with it, which was more than a little embarrassing.

“I’m not out of touch,” John mutters before kissing Adeline on the head. “I’m still cool, aren’t I, baby?”

Adeline stares him in the eye. She may be the child of John and Mary, but her stare reminds him of Sherlock.

“Want to have a nap now, chicken?” John says as he takes her to her cot.

The song shuffles to Bob Dylan’s “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands”. It’ll do, it’s not noisy enough to freak out the baby. Strictly speaking, John prefers _Blood on the Tracks_ to _Blonde on Blonde_. Sherlock always said he didn’t like Dylan until he put on the holy trinity of Dylan records (in John’s humble opinion) – Blood on the Tracks, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Sherlock still didn’t voice approval, but John caught him listening to Blonde on Blonde one day, weeks later.

Seems like everything makes John think of Sherlock right now.

John feels terrible for how things were left off with Sherlock, but he needed some distance. He absolutely loved being with Sherlock. It was great. Somehow even oral sex or a handjob was the most exciting thing with Sherlock as a partner. But everything is mixed up with his guilt for cheating on Mary and his guilt at having a partner so soon after burying her. John needs time, he just hopes that Sherlock is willing to wait for him.

What if Sherlock doesn’t want to speak with him ever again? That’s a potential romantic relationship buggered along with what is probably the most significant friendship John has ever had. Things couldn’t get any more screwed up if John was a character on a soap opera.

John goes into his mobile phone’s gallery and finds the folder where he’s put all the photos of Sherlock and him. When Sherlock died, John realised he had hardly any photographs, so he makes sure to take a lot now. To be fair, Sherlock is rolling his eyes or scowling in many of the photos, but John finds that impossibly endearing.

John is startled out of his musing by his phone ringing. It’s Sherlock. John smiles. Sherlock never calls.

“You know how to use the call function on your phone?” John says.

“Of course I do,” says Sherlock in a petulant voice.

“Did Molly give you back your phone?”

“Yes, she’s gone to work. I’m babysitting the cat.”

John bursts out laughing. “The cat huh? What does that entail? Watching it lick its arse all morning and sleep all afternoon?”

“I like cats,” Sherlock says. John thinks he sounds a little insulted.

“Of course you do,” John says with a laugh, “They’re just like you.”

“How so?”

“They act like they’re independent while being completely dependent on others, they laze about interspersed with brief periods of intense activity, and they are fastidious about their personal appearance.”

“I ought to have clawed your eyes out when I had the chance,” Sherlock says.

John laughs. “I like cats too. As long as they’re not those weird hairless ones. They’re creepy.”

“You should move back to Baker Street,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“What?”

“The insurance company is unlikely to pay anything out of Mary’s life insurance, because her identity was fraudulent. Not to mention your mortgage.”

“Shit,” says John, “You’re right. One more thing to be stressed out. Why couldn’t I have married someone normal?”

“You wouldn’t have lasted two weeks married to a normal person.”

“Considering, um, us, yeah, I guess I’m uh,” John babbles, “I’m not that interested in normal, am I?”

“So move back in,” Sherlock says.

“It’s not exactly that easy, Sherlock,” John says, “Having a baby in Baker Street isn’t exactly the best idea. The place is a biohazard at the best of times. I could handle it myself, because I worked out pretty quick where the eyes or kidneys were kept.”

“I’ll get rid of all that stuff. I could probably rent out 221C and use that as a lab.”

“Are you sure you’d want to live with a baby? She’s pretty cute in small doses, but wait until she’s screaming her head off all night or later on when she’s chucking tantrums and wrecking all your things.”

“I can handle it,” Sherlock says. John thinks maybe he sounds a little insulted.

“I know you can,” John says, “I just don’t want to be a burden or anything.”

“You wouldn’t be,” says Sherlock, “Addie either. I like children. It’s adults I generally dislike.”

“You only like adults who are as handsome as me, obviously,” says John.

“Um, yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, “So move back home and you’ll see how much I like you. Frequently.”

“Oh. Well. That’s um. Oh.” John says, flustered.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says quickly. “I may be getting a little ahead of myself. I should stop talking. I know you need time and that I shouldn’t push you.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like I completely object to it.”

“It’s just, um,” Sherlock pauses, “It’s a bit strange to say it out loud but, I think right now I have a lot more of a libido than I ever remembering having.”

John smiles. Typical of Sherlock to phrase “I’m really horny” in that roundabout way of his.

“That’s normal, you know, when you have a new lover,” John says.

“It’s very distracting. I haven’t been able to be productive at anything except masturbation lately.”

“Uhm” John says. “Jesus Christ, you’re pretty distracting yourself.”

“It would be bad manners to do that now, in Molly’s flat wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John says, “Probably. Women tend to object to that sort of thing, generally speaking.”

“How pedestrian,” Sherlock mutters.

John laughs. “I’d invite you here to do it, but I think I need to get my head sorted first. I’ve got an appointment with my therapist tomorrow. I don’t want a repeat of last time. Next time I want to do it properly you know? I could take you out on a date.”

“A date?”

“You know, two people, like each other, go out and have fun,” John says, recalling an old conversation.

“We’ve had loads of those, remember?”

“I’ll take you out to dinner somewhere nice, somewhere you like. We’ll have drinks. We’ll go for a walk somewhere, we’ll break into Regents Park. There’ll be lots and lots of snogging. By the time we get to Baker Street, we’ll both be desperate for it. Then you’ll take me to bed, and to be honest, what we do in bed changes every time but I’d be pretty well enthusiastic about anything you want. When we’re done, we’ll have a shower together, and then we’ll go back to bed and sleep in and do it again the next morning. I won’t feel in the slightest bit guilty, or confused, and I’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

“John,” Sherlock says breathlessly.

“I’ll make you feel so good, Sherlock. I promise you that. I don’t want to make you feel anything other than really good.”

“John,” Sherlock repeats, “You’re really not helping.”

“Ah shit, sorry, Sherlock,” John says laughing, “I better go anyway. I will think about moving back home though.”

“I love you,” Sherlock mumbles.

“I love you too,” John says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I know you like texting but it’s nice to hear your voice.”

“Alright,” says Sherlock.

“Talk soon,” John promises.


End file.
